


I Just Like You (Don't Even Wanna Fuck)

by abaddxns



Series: Harringrove for Australia [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Upside Down, Closeted Character, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega/Omega, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other: See Story Notes, POV Steve Harrington, Porn With Plot, Queer Themes, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Switching, Underage Drinking, Vaginal Fingering, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 43,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23436376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abaddxns/pseuds/abaddxns
Summary: Steve's parents have made it very clear over the course of his life that they have specific expectations of him that he's meant to fulfill. There are also things they've hinted towards that he'sreallynot allowed to do, like pursue specific types of people.Specifically, pursuing anyone that won't be able to fully provide for him and let him live out his life as some esteemed trophy spouse, spending his days sitting pretty and pumping out as many babies as he can, and, as well, not pursuing an omega.Of course, Steve's been stealth fucking Billy Hargrove, residential bad boy and closeted omega, for months.[as prompted by lostnoise for HfA: "I was hoping for a modern A/B/O au. I really like untraditional dynamics (omega/omega, alpha/alpha, alpha/beta) and smut is good by me, I rly like switching/versatile sex dynamics. Bonus points if you can squeeze some pining in there because it makes it all the sweeter."]
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Harringrove for Australia [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626640
Comments: 42
Kudos: 205
Collections: harringrove for Australia





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lostnoise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostnoise/gifts).



> so this was originally supposed to be 5k but we all know it's impossible for me to stay under a word count, so this ended up taking me way longer than it was supposed to because i couldn't stop adding and rewriting things.
> 
> for the 'other' tags: i want to mention that there are some very brief mentions of underage sex in the beginning (which was already its own warning but here's some clarification -- it's quite brief), some misogynistic/homophobic language (or at least the equivalent of it in this AU), and some unhealthy relationship dynamics (that get reconciled but y'know these idiots aren't perfect). 
> 
> (and i didn't want to put 'boypussy' in the tags just because i know it's not a word everyone is into but tldr; there's a lot of coochie up in here. allegories everywhere, woohoo!)
> 
> **edit because i’ve seen some supposed misunderstandings about anatomy in peoples’ bookmarks and the like: this isn’t a ‘whole cis guy dick and balls and there’s also coochie hiding in there’ type thing; this is more a clit and vag, but more so t-dick and cooch, type thing — me using ‘dick’ and synonymous words is a purposeful language choice and doesn’t change their anatomy to something other than i’ve intended, implied, and blatantly stated, ty 💕
> 
> i did break this up into two parts as well! the second part is just the last little chunk i have to edit + add to, which is essentially an epilogue; i just wanted to get this section up because it's already so long, and because i knew if i spent another day looking at this i'd totally decimate it from overworking it (we love a good perfectionist, hyperfixating mindset.)
> 
> and please ignore any spelling errors for now, i've been staring at this doc and this doc alone for a week straight and have been not sleeping to work on it so i've become blind to any remaining mistakes for the time being. i will get back to a stricter edit when i've had the opportunity to let it breathe a bit, haha.
> 
> lastly, a big thank you to trashcangimmick for your overall cheerleading (and plenty of enabling) and lostnoise for such a fun prompt, for looking this over before i posted, _and_ being so patient with me taking forever to finish this because i got so carried away. 
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Steve has been raised to believe his life is going to go a certain way.

Originally his parents had anticipated he’d be an alpha and with a strong line on his father’s side, he still can’t blame them for making that assumption. They’d already planned his life from start to finish before he even popped out.

But when he _was_ born and the doctor immediately alerted John and Elizabeth Harrington differently, with the second guessing made upon taking in his minute old, naked glory confirmed by the usual blood work, they had to scrap their original plan and start from scratch.

In retrospect, the reformatted plan isn’t all that different — the role his proposed future mate would have played has just fallen unto him.

He’s supposed to find a good, strong alpha. One that’s well off, will support him, protect him. Keep him happy and comfortable. Satisfied. The bit about his proposed future mate also having a fat knot to keep him round and full of pups goes unsaid but it’s just an important factor to them.

He still doesn’t know how to feel about that.

And he’s expected to be a good mate in turn. An obedient, devoted, _fertile_ omega. A good listener, emotional caretaker, a loving parent.

They expect once married off, Steve will spend his days in some grand, lavish home, spoiled rotten, high on an abundance of pheromones and dreamily draping himself over ornate furniture all day, always ready to answer his alpha’s every beck and call. Bend over whenever asked, ready to take it and love every second - and inch - of it.

Oh, and pump out as many grandbabies as his body allows and add them to his list of ‘hopelessly devoted to’ right beside his partner.

And Steve would _like_ to argue that no one has _that_ many kids anymore; it’s not financially - or environmentally, as Nancy claims - feasible anymore, but he hasn’t actually said anything in protest.

Honestly all of it is a little archaic. Maybe not for people of his family’s caliber and background - hilarious as his parents didn’t exactly fulfill all these old society expectations that they’re imposing on him - but archaic for the time, even for Hawkins, which is definitely saying something.

Like it isn’t at all unheard of that plenty of betas have skipped town with alphas instead of finding another beta or even an omega to settle down with. That some alphas might sneak around under the cover of night, pinkies hooked together between movie theatre seats while they drape their arms around omegas. They’re all open secrets.

But in more recent years there have been more and more news headlines about an omega couple expecting at the same time or the alpha staying home to watch the kids while their omega goes back to work, trios of different combinations all perfectly in love with one another — miscellaneous couplings of not-typical making it work just fine.

None of it’s _unheard_ of. It’s just less common in small town Indiana. That’s why some people born the opposite of traditional, and by cadence, _normal_ , by way of their classification traits or who catches their eye, leave in hopes of some more progressive thinking. Some stay closeted their whole lives and only live their truths under the cover-up of more socially acceptable partners.

But some, particularly the younger generations, live their truths unabashedly.

Steve though, he’s _still_ supposed to end up with an alpha. A beta can work if they meet all these predetermined qualifications. It goes unsaid over family get-togethers and Dad’s business dinners but the only thing he’s not allowed to pursue — is another omega.

☆

Steve’s a bit of a slut.

Or at least, he _has_ been.

He knows how good he looks, with his soft brown hair, pouty lips, leanly muscled body, with his tight cunt and fat little dick. Everyone’s aching to sink their teeth into him, and if they’re given the chance, they savor the taste, get addicted to it. He’s been the flavor of the week for years.

So why not encourage, revel in the worship before he’s ultimately trapped in the throes of monogamy? It just wouldn’t be fair to anyone. He likes getting off, likes putting on a show, watching his partner’s eyes flutter and roll back into their heads when they slip inside of him, where he’s warm and wet and silky smooth.

He lost his virginity to Tommy when they were fourteen. Started fooling around the summer before freshman year when Tommy, mopey and single post break-up number god-knows-what with Carol, bashfully noted just how good Steve smelled. Nuzzled right into his neck and told him he smelled like French vanilla ice cream and the trellis full of jasmine that grew in the Harringtons’ backyard.

Steve maybe should have felt guilty at least once while he was still fucking Tommy, because he knew Carol would come back from her annual family vacation and she’d pout and say _I missed you, Teddy Bear, why didn’t you text me_? and push her tits together and they’d be back together playing horizontal Twister before any real conversation could be had.

But he didn’t. He _still_ doesn’t. She was probably fucking some big-dicked meathead older friend of her cousins’ out in the Poconos anyway.

Three months bouncing on Tommy’s dick, grinding on his fingers and sitting on his face between Halo raids and older kids’ pool parties and summer baseball practice brought his world into vivid technicolor.

Steve’s fucked a lot of people since. Has fucked Tommy a few times since then, too, even though he’s seen more impressive dick; the guy just knows where to touch him. It’s muscle memory. And Steve has also readily abused his followers on Snap and Instagram to get dick on the regular if anyone throwing it off at school is too much of a coward to follow through. A snap or a DM is all he’s ever needed when feeling particularly lonely or horny. His bedroom door should be replaced by a revolving one.

He’s not on scent blockers either so he always smells floral and sweet, stronger so after he’s gotten laid. Like vanilla ice cream and a summer breeze. Never touches cologne or masking sprays. Everyone with a dick - and eyes - in close proximity chubs up when they catch a whiff of him. A hefty handful probably slick their panties, too, even if they can all smell that he’s leaking someone else’s come.

Steve is on birth control, though, because he’s not stupid, and paired with his suppressants, he doesn’t have to go into heat like six times a year. It’s a challenge to get him pregnant outside of his cycle anyway but he’ll cut his risks where he can. Getting knocked up would really put a damper on things. His parents would only be disappointed that he hadn’t graduated or gotten paired first.

The ironic thing now, though, is despite his past, his easier tendencies and careful pill-popping, Steve has spent the last few months solely fucking one person, and this one person in particular is the type of person he really _shouldn’t_ be seeing.

Because Steve is fucking Billy Hargrove, and Billy Hargrove is an omega.

It’s a double taboo, two birds one stone. Because if his parents found out, he’d already be shunned for dipping his toe in the queer pool - as if he hasn’t hooked up beta girls; like he hadn’t fingerfucked Amy Preston while they were both crossfaded at the junior barbecue or eaten out Nancy at least three times a week for six months last year while he was getting simultaneously pounded by Jonathan, their on-the-downlow boyfriend - then shunned again because Billy Hargrove is _not_ the kind of omega they’d want their precious baby boy being associated with, even on a platonic basis.

Because Billy’s a _bad boy_.

He vapes and drives a loud vintage car and sneaks a flask to school every other day. He argues with every adult he encounters regardless of their class and gets into fights and sells hash and pills to make extra money outside of his shitty lifeguard gig. He’s got an earring and a tattoo and a long, honey brown evolved mullet and he’s got to have at least one tit out anytime he leaves the house.

People want to fuck him as bad as they want to fuck Steve. Maybe more, now. Steve is that small town kinda dangerous, with money and selfish intentions while Billy is straight-up danger personified.

(And like, okay, Steve’s maybe gone a _little_ soft on top of this unspoken monogamous fuck buddy thing they’ve got going on — he’s got a gaggle of nerdy middle schoolers that follow him around like baby ducklings, he’s friends with _both_ his exes even though they left him to be together, _alone,_ and reconciled with Tommy and Carol even after they were grade-A assholes about him dating two people at once, _and_ he doesn’t parade around like fuckin’ Slutty Keg King Steve anymore, but he’s _still_ got some clout and plenty horny tendencies?

He’s just nicer, maybe a little emotionally bruised and vulnerable, and has stopped bouncing from lap to lap every time he’s gotten the urge. At least for the time being.)

Everyone but Steve thinks Billy is a beta anyway - and that’s intentional, Steve’s learned, and no one’s going to know otherwise, if he caught Billy’s drift properly - so really, if his parents _actually_ found out he was fucking Billy? They’d have no reason to complain, other than maybe insisting he’s a bad influence.

 _But can he take care of you, Steven?_ _Does he have the financial and emotional means to give you what you need? Because we think if temptation came along, he’d skip out on you and your children for some less respectable omega in a heartbeat._

They can keep pretending Steve is some unsoiled, virginal omega waiting for some charming, well-off alpha to sweep him off his feet and keep his womb in constant business all they want. Whatever helps them sleep at night in their hotel rooms and vacation homes. Steve’s been enough of a bad influence on himself by chasing his every whim and desire, using orgasmic bliss as his own personal upper and the sweaty ride there as a chaser.

There’s no _way_ Billy Hargrove can sully him more than he has himself.

Steve’s already been his own ruining.

☆

“Billy, Billy- _fuck_.”

Steve grips Billy’s shoulders with blunt fingernails in an attempt to quiet himself. Under his palms, Billy’s skin is sticky with sweat. The gold St. Christopher always hanging from his neck is sticking to his chest. He smells overwhelmingly of chlorine and cinnamon e-liquid and it’s flooding out into the backseat even with the windows rolled down. It’s all chemicals and artificial flavoring mixing with the faint air freshener pumping out _spring break margarita!_ on the driver’s side visor.

Billy hums under him and gives his dick a particularly hard suck. Licks up Steve’s whole labia. Nose nuzzled in the trimmed curls above his cock. Steve can feel one of his fingertips stroking teasingly slow between his folds, too; it keeps him wriggling and restless like a worm on a hook. Billy will only pet his slit though. He’s yet to fuck Steve with his fingers today.

Steve’s dripping something awful on the suede interior. He can’t help it. The anticipation is killing him. They haven’t seen each other in like, a half week with Billy working at the now open public pool and Steve stuck with babysitting and remedial homework. This spring break has been a cruel, miserable bitch.

“Billy,” he hisses, more irritated this time.

Billy actually stops licking at him. “What?” Fucking brat.

“Fuck me already, _Christ_.”

He makes a thoughtful face, taps himself on the chin, then shakes his head. “Mm, I don’t think so.” Gives Steve’s thigh a bite. “You taste too _good_ , baby.”

Steve squirms at the nickname. It twists his stomach up into knots every time. Billy uses them copiously to make up for the fact he’s kind of a dick both in and out of their hook-ups. He only ever does what he wants — blows Steve off, sneaks over when he wants to fool around without any heads up, practically _assaults_ him with taunts and shoves at school.

But then when Steve’s just about had enough, leaving Billy on read and ignoring his FaceTime calls, snarling at him to fuck off in the hallways and locker room in return, Billy’s pulling him into his arms and running his warm, rough hands over his ribs, nosing into his neck and telling him he’s _sorry_ , he doesn’t _mean_ it, that Steve’s the prettiest damn thing he’s _ever_ seen.

And Steve falls for it every goddamn time. Has for fucking _months_. It’s probably an unhealthy relationship anyway. But it’s not like they’re _actually_ dating. If they were, he would’ve cut this off. But, again, they’re not.

He _did_ stop sleeping with other people for this though. Not like he really _was_ seeing anyone when this started, too heartbroken and inspired by the bliss and comfort of an actual relationship to fully live up to his past potential, but there were a few random times he was desperate enough to seduce some hungry ex-hookup to be eaten out or fucked to a shuddery climax, all before sending them home and curling up in bed, feeling just as empty as before.

Stupid of him to enter this friends with benefits, _you’re hot, I’m hot, let’s fuck out this frustration_ thing fully knowing that after Nancy and Jonathan and being _in love_ it’d bring him to nothing but ruin in the long run.

But when Billy shows up at his door at ten-thirty on a Tuesday night, in nothing but a cut up Maiden tee and tiny cotton shorts with a bag of sour gummy worm edibles in hand, who’s Steve to tell him no?

Steve lets out a huff of frustration, bonking his head on the side of the door with a quiet _ow_. Billy keeps on teasing his cunt with a finger and sucking his little cock like he’ll die if he stops. Chuckles against him when Steve’s thighs start to shake.

When he pulls off a few minutes later, right when Steve feels the familiar coiling in his gut, his lips are glossy and cherry red.

“Y’know, Stevie,” he muses, and Steve scowls down at him for stopping to talk, “I think... you don’t get to come today.”

Steve immediately sits up. Flashes hot with anger. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“You’re being awful bitchy, whining about wanting to get fucked. Is my mouth not enough for you?”

Steve’s gobsmacked; he can’t answer. He’s just staring down at Billy with his freckles and dreamy blue eyes, all tan and smug and gorgeous. He should shove his head down and tell him to get back to work, but he might like that.

And if Billy’s going to play mean, it’s only fair he plays _even_.

“Fine,” Steve snaps, struggling to tug his swim trunks back up despite how wet and horny he still is, how cramped the backseat is at this angle, “get off by yourself then, _asshole_.”

He leaves Billy alone in the Beamer and storms back onto the pool deck. Plops down next to Dustin, who’s none the wiser while he attempts to not drip ice cream sandwich all over himself in front of two girls his age sunbathing in bikinis across the way.

“Hey, where’d you disappear to?” he asks. Then he sniffs, goes, “Jeez, Steve, you _reek_ ,” before flicking some of his Coke at him in retaliation.

Steve just grunts in response. Pulls his phone out of the beach bag. He can feel Dustin looking at him expectantly for an answer. There’s also El and Will sending him wide eyed, curious looks from the concrete edge of the pool. He ignores them all and puts his earphones in.

It’s only fair to ignore Billy, too, when he finally takes over in the lifeguard’s chair again.

His gaze burns hotter than the spring sunshine.

☆

Billy shows up after dinner, right after Steve’s parents leave to go have drinks with one of Dad’s new clients. If Billy saw how the creep was _leering_ at him all evening, he would’ve gouged the guys eyes out with his thumbs. Or pressed a steak knife to his dick under the dining table just before using it to slice into his pork roast.

He might be a bitch and a half but he’s fucking _possessive_. It makes Steve warm all over.

When he shows up, Steve’s in bed, freshly showered with his laptop resting on his stomach, half paying attention to reruns of Bob’s Burgers. Just lounging in a baggy Brockhampton tee and some shorts nearly hidden under the bottom hem of his shirt. It’s still in the blue hours, his room bathed in bright cerulean even with the lights clicked off.

Billy stumbles in through the open window with a fanny pack - Billy calls it a crossbody bag; it’s a fucking fanny pack - strapped across his chest, hair up in a loose bun and still wearing his red swim shorts, now complete with the lifeguard hoodie. He kicks off his Nikes and wordlessly crawls into bed, still smelling strongly of chlorine.

Steve’s still pissed. He doesn’t even look at him while Billy wriggles in and noses along his jaw; he’d bitterly got off alone after he’d taken the kids home and it had been the complete opposite of satisfying.

Billy’s trying to crawl into his lap already, carefully moving his laptop out of the way to shut it, gently set it on the shelf attached to the headboard. Steve doesn’t stop him but he does clench his jaw.

“I _was_ watching that,” he says, dangerously low, still not physically reacting to Billy’s languid movements.

Billy huffs as he straddles his lap, thick thighs bulging under the constraints of tight red polyester. He wiggles a little and drops his hands to Steve’s shoulders.

“ _C’mon_ baby, don’t be like that.”

“You’re a fucking dick, you know that?”

“You love it, though,” Billy says against his cheek, “c’mon Stevie, I’ll make it up to you, _promise_.”

Steve finally regards him with a glare but Billy is unrelenting. He rocks in his lap again and sneaks a hand under his shirt, pinches one of his nipples and wriggles his hand so it twists a little. Steve bites his lip to stay quiet.

He always bends for Billy.

Not offering any verbal confirmation, Steve just takes hold of the hand up his t-shirt. He purposely shies away from Billy’s face as he brings it to his lips, lightly runs the tip of his tongue up Billy’s index finger, then the middle, then the two together. Sucks them deep in his mouth and lets them curl down the opening of his throat.

Billy’s breath hitches. He pushes his fingers further down Steve’s throat, far enough that he should be choking, but Steve’s had practice. He takes it easy, confident, while Billy’s struggling to keep his cool. Pushes his fingers in and out of Steve’s mouth a few times, fucking his throat like that.

Slowly retracting his fingers, Billy sucks them into his own mouth, not down his shorts or even down Steve’s like Steve would have anticipated. Maybe it should turn him on less than it does. But it also makes no sense, realistically, to be grossed out by spit when someone will chew on your asshole or swallow your come, so.

“You wanna make it up to me?” Steve asks once Billy’s done making a show out of cleaning his fingers and smiling down at him a little menacingly, waiting. He toys with the waistband of his shorts. “Get to work.”

“Mm, _there’s_ that bossy streak again,” Billy tuts. At least he listens. He slowly slinks down the bedding, gets down onto his stomach between Steve’s legs. Peels the cinched waistband of his shorts down to nip at his hip bone. Just a sting. “C’mon, up.”

Steve readjusts so Billy can tug his shorts the rest of the way off, which he does, quicker than he had earlier, when being caught was a heavier threat than it is right now. Nevermind Steve could have been banned from the pool and in _big_ trouble with the kids’ parents for leaving them alone to go get fucked, and Billy could lose his job by making Heather clock on earlier than scheduled so he could go get laid at work.

Whatever. They’ll probably end up doing it again. Make it just another pattern they’ve fallen into.

When Billy zeroes in on what he’s wearing underneath, Steve flushes.

It’s not super often that he does this, but sometimes it puts him in a mood. A little pep in his step. It’s done something particularly nice to his past hook-ups too, and it seems like Billy’s going to be no exception.

“Well, would you look at,” Billy muses, rubbing his thumb over the thin cotton, over the little red cherries dappled aross the white fabric, “these fuckin’ _panties_.” Billy suddenly presses his nose to the material and inhales heavily. “ _Christ_ , baby.”

Steve weakly pushes at his head. “Knock it off, you’re so gross,” he grumbles.

Billy noses up against him again, breathes him in deeper and sighs. The warm air ghosts over Steve’s dick. Starts to make him wet.

When Billy gently pulls the fabric to the side, he gets another surprise. The skin hidden under the soft cherry print is warm, still pink and sensitive, but it’s smooth, too, soft with cream. Billy grins wolfishly.

“You do this just for _me_?” he asks, almost adoringly. “Aw, you didn’t _have_ to, sweetheart, your twat is _always_ gonna be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Steve grumbles again and feels himself go hotter. He has to tug his t-shirt up over his face to hide the furious pink tinge burning his cheeks.

Since he started getting laid ages ago he’s had a pretty solid maintenance routine, but he can’t shave everywhere because of seemingly _unavoidable_ razor burn, and he learned early on that waxing too far down or inwards was _not_ ideal, so there’s almost always a little something there.

Not that he minds having that little something there, or really cares about anyone else’s personal preferences or choices, but sometimes being bare is a treat. Tag-teaming it was a process but it has at least garnered the desired results. Billy’s fuzzy little rat moustache is going to irritate the hell out of the raw skin and it’s going to be _so_ worth it.

Steve’s about to complain about Billy being a teasing asshole again when he licks a fat stripe up between Steve’s folds. Any bitchy remark leaves his mind in an instant, a shaken Etch-A-Sketch moment. The hot press of Billy’s wicked tongue often has that side effect.

“ _Oh_ ,” Steve sighs, almost in surprise. He fists the sheets and parts his legs wider, keeping them propped up by Billy’s broad shoulders when Billy licks at him again. “Mm. Like that.”

Billy chuckles as he does so. Flicks his tongue a little faster before parting Steve’s folds with two fingers. Sucks at the space between them. Uses one hand to pin his thigh up higher. The pendant of Billy’s necklace tickles the inside of his leg.

It’s a lot — really it always is, if it’s Billy giving him head. Steve’s already sweating and they’ve just started. There’s not a long list of people that have been particularly skilled when it’s come to going down on him, so Billy’s been able to capture the number one spot without a fight.

Like, Tommy was _decent_ at it. His real stand-out skills were his enthusiasm and ability to multitask. Not so much his techniques alone. And when Steve was still seeing Jonathan and Nancy, Nancy did have the better oral skills, but Jonathan was damn good at fucking him.

And of the times Nancy strapped up, Steve had to prepare himself, knowing it would be softer and more tender — lots of deep, languid thrusts and kissing; the orgasm would be a slow, steady climb, while Jonathan could easily rail him, hit all the right spots in any position and could go at it until Steve was blustering and panting and had to push him off.

But Billy, he’s still ranked top spot in all categories.

He’s knocked anyone else that might’ve been ranked decently down at least a few pegs. It’s what drags Steve back in again and again. Like he’s been pulled out to sea and the current won’t carry him back to land. It’s what’s kicked his libido up to eleven and has him whimpering, frustrated, with a running shower head pulsing on his dick every time he gets blown off. Always aching for his fix.

He chokes when Billy thumbs back the hood to suckle directly on the head of his cock. His fingers scramble to find purchase in Billy’s loosely knotted hair. Billy chuckles against him when he tries to push his head down.

“Slut,” Billy chides, grinning, as he briefly pulls off, replacing his tongue with his thumb.

Steve tugs harder on his hair. “ _Bitch_.”

Billy winks at him with a devilish smirk and gets back to work.

His lashes are long and tickle when he moves his head a certain way, eyes mostly closed, but every now and then they’ll flutter open and Steve will find his face the object of their affection. Bathed in a blue glow, he knows Billy can see how flushed his face must be. How pleased Billy probably is about it, too.

Steve fights a groan when one of Billy’s thick fingers sinks into him. It doesn’t move much but it does curl just right, flicking somewhere that makes him clench up. Billy keeps up that rhythm — slowly curling a lone finger inside as he sucks Steve’s cock. His chin must be an awful mess of slick. Steve can feel himself dripping, is probably going to leave a spot on the duvet.

Billy’s not at it that long before Steve feels that all too familiar tightening in his stomach. If the way his hips start to stutter isn’t clear enough, he tugs Billy’s hair hard enough it has to sting. Starts to whimper and bites his lip.

“Aw, you gonna come already?” Billy smugly asks against him.

He slips another finger in and really starts up, sloppy as he sucks and laps at Steve’s cock, even daring a few soft nips. Really fucks him properly with his fingers and tongue. Sounds awful wet.

Steve knows he’s going to squirt. His whole body is wound up that special kind of tense with his muscles pulled so taught he’s quaking. He can feel Billy’s fingers expertly tapping all those sweet spots inside of him, tickling his nerves just right.

He shakily warns, “I’m, I’m gonna come,” and gives Billy’s curls a warning tug back, but Billy just holds firm and licks him like a drippy ice cream cone — starving for it.

Their eyes lock and that’s it. Steve comes in a gut-punch response.

He keens weakly. Is clenching up and spilling over at the same time. Gushing on Billy’s face in a few jumpy bursts. Billy hums happily. He keeps fucking him on his fingers as he laps up the slick dripping down his face, dripping between Steve’s thighs. The wet spot on the duvet spreads, a widening pool of dark blue.

Steve hates that Billy can make him come like this with so little effort. With an equal amount of smugness. Before he could only squirt in heat every once in a blue moon — if it was just _that_ good. Now he’s trying not to gush every time Billy starts touching him; people will ask questions if you come back to class from a bathroom break red-faced and heaving with your pants soaked through with come.

(It’s a miracle that, when they are home, neither of his parents have asked why he’s taken to doing the laundry on a regular basis.)

He doesn’t like to consider why or how Billy’s so good at all this either. Pangs him with a jealousy he’d be really hypocritical to indulge in. It’s not like he’s complaining, either, but the growing realization that Billy has touched and probably _still_ touches other people — it makes his jaw tick.

“There we go, baby,” Billy coos at him, kissing his thigh. “You always look so goddamn hot when I make you come. Makes me real _wet_.”

“Shut _up_.”

Steve makes an effort to cross his legs. He grimaces — he’s sticky and slick and the friction of his thighs when he tries to close the space between them makes his dick ache. Oversensitive in a good way but still mad about it.

Billy moves back so his head doesn’t get trapped but he keeps a hand on Steve’s inner thigh. Spreads the tacky mix of come and spit over baby soft skin. Dips in to gather more of it on his fingers despite Steve’s thrashing. When he does move his hand away, he licks at the spider web of come stringing his fingers together. Steve wants to knee him in the nose for being so goddamn insufferable.

Almost like he can sense Steve’s lingering sour mood, Billy crawls over him. He still smells like chlorine and sunscreen, sunbaked and smoky with vape smoke and sweat, but he’s also got Steve’s come smeared across his face. Cloying and musky.

When he goes in for a kiss, Steve shies away from it with an irritated grumble; not because he hasn’t tasted himself before, hasn’t licked himself off his own fingers or someone else’s hand or mouth, but because Billy’s still so full of himself. Glowing with self righteous pride.

When Billy tries again, pouting in a mocking way like that’s going to win him over, Steve twists the opposite direction.

Billy clicks his tongue in response. “Aw, don’t be like that. You’ve got no reason to be mad at me; I said I’d get you off, and I did, didn’t I?“

“That’s not the _point_ ,” Steve glowers.

“You’re so _cute_ when you’re pissed off, Stevie, still trying to act like you’re all tough when we both know you get all _achy_ just _looking_ at me.”

“God, you’re so fucking,” Steve locks his ankles low on Billy’s back, and adds, with a growl, “ _irritating_.”

That’s it.

He flips them in one fell swoop. It knocks the air out of both of them for a moment. While Billy takes an extra second to realize what’s happening, Steve is moving to properly pin him down, digging his knees into Billy’s hips and pressing his wrists into the pillows hard enough he can feel the thrumming of his pulse.

For once, Billy looks stunned. Absolutely smacked sideways.

It’s not often Steve totally gets the upper hand like this. Not to say he _doesn’t_ fuck Billy, because he does, _plenty_ , but Billy never shuts the fuck up and it throws him off his game. Can’t pin him down as easily, or get him to comply in a way he’s used to people doing for him. Billy’s obviously hot for him, but he’s not _weak_.

It’d be a lie to say he doesn’t like the challenge though, because there’s nothing that gets him fired up quicker than Billy eventually bending to his will, all ruddy cheeked and panting and aching to touch himself. Begging, on occasion, when Steve stoops to his level of teasing and berating.

“ _There’s_ that fire,” Billy grins fiercely, “c’mon, I-“

“Shut. _Up_ ,” Steve snarls. He drapes himself over Billy and inserts his bare thigh between Billy’s parted legs, rubs against the seam of his swim shorts where he’s warm, clearly not wearing anything under the stiff red fabric. “You sure have some fucking _nerve_ , leaving me like that at the pool and crawling back here thinking you’re gonna butter me up and make me forgive you by getting me off. Busting my balls like _I’m_ the needy bitch when you’re _just_ as wet for it.”

Billy grinds back against his leg, still wearing an expression too prideful for his current predicament. His hair is coming loose from its tie and fanning out under him, a halo of twisted gold.

“Ooh, what’re you gonna do, King Steve, _punish me_?” he taunts.

Steve puts one hand on Billy’s hip and forces it down into the mattress. It’s a bruising press but Billy doesn’t falter. Stubborn motherfucker.

“I _thought_ I told you to stop talking.”

When Billy rolls his eyes all _alright, I’ll play along_ , like he hasn’t been put in his place before, Steve abandons his hastily constructed plan of working Billy up slowly, making him achy and desperate but not letting him have anything. _That_ goes out the fucking window; he’s going to fuck Billy until he’s begging to _stop_.

He tugs Billy’s shorts down in one go and deposits them off the side of the bed. Finds him like he almost always does — without any underwear to be found.

Billy’s paler under his shorts but he’s still not as white as Steve is. He’s not trimmed as closely either but he’s well maintained, a patch of wiry brown hair growing above his cock. Steve drags his fingers through it before he spreads Billy open. Hungrily eyes where he’s shining and pink. Vice grip tight.

He ducks down to taste him without any guise and Billy’s sucking in a shaky breath and letting his legs fall open the rest of the way, making room. Clutches the sheets in one hand. The other greedily grips the back of Steve’s head as he sucks Billy’s little cock into his mouth. It’s fatter than his, but not as long. Fun to roll over with his tongue.

Steve’s eating him hungrily, barely breathing. Sucking at and humming against him, sticking his tongue inside as far as it’ll go and writing little shapes with it. Billy comes like that, no warning sign. It’s embarrassingly fast. Just a shake and a shiver against Steve’s mouth followed by a raspy gasp.

“Alright, I,” Billy swallows, smirking again when he has no fucking right to, “I get it, I learned my lesson, I-”

Steve sits up and glares at him, suddenly curls a finger in him to cut him off. It slides in easily and Billy finally cuts himself off. Pinches his pretty blue eyes shut and bites into his ripe bottom lip.

“You didn’t learn shit, baby.”

He works a second finger into him as he leans to the side and blindly cards through his bedside drawer, over hastily torn open containers and bags stuffed with toys, a few sample sachets and bottles of lube, until he feels what he’s looking for — something familiarly scratchy and rough. He deposits the harness on the bed where Billy can see it.

It’s not the one he had in mind but it’ll do the job. He’ll have to look for the leather piece later.

“You’re always calling me a brat, a _bitch_ , telling me I’m too needy and whiny,” Steve tells him, because it’s _true_ , “and maybe I _am_ a brat, maybe I _am_ needy,” which is fair, Steve’s not in denial, and he twists his fingers harshly when Billy starts to go lax around him, “but you _still_ haven’t learned that no matter what, I _always_ get my goddamn way.”

Steve hastily extracts his fingers and Billy actually whines. He’s so pretty, especially when he’s desperate. And he is, always, desperate for it, no matter how blasé he acts about this whole thing.

Billy watches him through half-shut eyes. He’s a disaster, all sun-pink and smelling like pool water, hair a tangled mess and hoodie tucked under his chin, one brown nipple exposed and at full attention. Angelic in appearance, devilish otherwise.

Steve can’t not kiss him. He hastily adjusts and clips the scratchy straps around his thighs as he dips down and nibbles at Billy’s mouth, even though the scratch of what facial hair he can grow always leaves Steve’s upper lip itchy. Billy tastes faintly like cherry Coke but more so like his last meal — Steve.

The toy Steve’s hastily picked is thick, knotted in three areas. On the firmer side. It’s a violent marbled pink with a faint shimmer. Billy loves to fuck him with it despite the prepwork, all necessary for the stretch.

He rubs the tip up and over Billy’s folds a few times, then circles it around his dick. Roughly presses into it with the flexible silicon. Billy moans quietly into their kiss and grinds back against the toy. Works his hips like he’s trying to get it in before Steve can.

“Nope, nuh-uh,” Steve pinches Billy’s thigh and he fucking yelps, then glowers, “on your stomach, c’mon, ass up.”

Billy rolls his eyes. He starts to pull his hoodie the rest of the way off. Tugs the material down his arms at a snail’s pace. Steve, no longer possessing an ounce of patience, hauls him onto his stomach by his hips before he can even take the damn thing off all the way. It’s tangled around his forearms. Billy grunts as his chin collides with the mattress. Turns over his shoulder to scowl, again.

“Did I stutter?” Steve snarks as he yanks Billy’s hips back and up.

Billy chuckles darkly into the blankets and wriggles his ass, ruts back over the toy with languid rolls of his hips. “Aw, does this mean I’m gonna get the _King Steve_ treatment, baby? Damn, guess you’re not the _only_ spoiled one here.”

Steve says nothing as he spits on his fingers. Spreads that over Billy’s cunt to briefly toy with his cock. He’s wet enough that it should slide in, even if it might drag a little. He doesn’t want it to hurt, but he does want Billy to be able to feel it tomorrow whenever he sits.

And if it does hurt, if it’s too rough or dry, Steve _will_ stop, grab lube, whatever Billy wants. He’s not a _total_ sadist.

He slides in slowly, a constant press of his hips. Billy lets out a shaky breath under him, clawing the sheets. It’s a good stretch. Steve dips down so he can get a hand between them. He wants to feel where the first bulb is gradually slipping into Billy, to feel the thin strip of skin stretching generously around it.

Billy visibly shudders when the first notch pops into him fully. It’s easily the thickest part. Steve can’t even connect his thumb to his fingers when he’s holding it and he’s got the longer hands of the two of them. He hesitates so Billy can adjust to it a little. Carefully thumbs over the curve of his hip. Clenches down on nothing in sympathy.

The next two knots go in easier. Just a one-two heave. When he’s buried to the hilt, hips kissing the warm, firm skin of Billy’s grabbable ass, he gives a little wiggle. Billy groans lowly into the mattress. Loose curls curtain his face while the visible tips of his ears burn.

“That feel good?” Steve asks him, voice honeyed. “God, you’re so fucking _tight_ , you’d think you’re not as much of a whore as you really are.”

Billy turns his head just slightly. “Fuck you.”

“Nuh-uh, baby, too late for that now.” Steve gives his left cheek a thoughtful smack for good measure. “Show me how good you can take it.”

Billy might put up a fight but he loves being used like this. Makes it clear that he likes it more than Steve kissing his neck and stroking his hair while trying to slide his fingers or a toy into him. Has enthused plenty afterwards, too.

Not to say Steve doesn’t like being rough with him like this sometimes, especially given Billy’s annoyingly cocksure attitude, pushing and pushing with the full intention of getting here, but — he doesn’t want to _have_ to pull out King Steve everytime he tops.

Tenderness just makes Billy prickle, spit venom. The first time Steve tried to go slow he actually _left_ and ignored his texts for three days. Steve secretly thinks, more so hopes, he just doesn’t know how to handle softness more than he actually hates it. Doesn’t like feeling open, vulnerable; instead takes it as _weak_.

So they do it more like this, instead. Steve convinces himself he had his fill of syrupy slow, Sunday morning-type sex with Nancy and Jonathan to feel better about it.

Billy stutters his hips, fucking himself on the toy at an off-tempo, jerky tempo. There’s already a thin layer of sweat beading up his back. His hair is completely free from its elastic, loose and cascading over his shoulders, frizzing from the pool and the static of the sheets.

Steve shortly meets him halfway. Makes Billy do most of the work and grinds in slow, deep. When he’s seated all the way in, twists a bit before pulling out again. Billy gets nice and noisy when he drags it out like this.

But he doesn’t stay that way for long. Steve pauses to readjust his stance, bracketing himself between Billy’s open legs and gripping both of Billy’s hips roughly.

“Can you get on with it already,” Billy growls, “I’m goin’ soft here, _Christ_.”

Steve glares at the back of his head. _Alright_. Gears up and fucks his hips in once harsh and fast. The sudden slap of their skin colliding is sharp and loud, a backhand. Harshly echoes throughout the room. He briefly wonders if anyone can hear them outside the open window with how quiet the neighborhood is, the cul-de-sac creeping out of Hawkins proper and into the edge of the woods.

Billy chokes on an inhale and then he’s chuckling darkly. “Oh _there_ we go, just like that -”

Steve gives the same cheek another harsh slap. His palms stings with the impact, vibrating. The skin underneath is already shifting into a mottled pink. The mark of his palm is an angry smudge.

“I _thought_ I told you to shut up already.”

Billy gives his ass another little shake in retaliation. Steve doesn’t give him the time to think something clever up, too; he fucks in just as hard and unrelenting, building a proper rhythm up this time. Focuses on the ragged little gasps slipping through Billy’s lips, the ones he’s clearly trying to mask as he aims for the spots that always make Billy’s toes curl hard enough to cramp.

It makes another wave of arousal roll through Steve. He’ll focus on taking care of that later. He’s still residually wet and sticky between his thighs, dick still a little too sensitive to handle anything direct

He fucks into Billy with vigor. Doesn’t even stop when Billy starts to get rowdy, really dropping the domineering bitch act. He’s moaning something awful, all pitchy and wet sounding, all open mouthed like he can’t bite his lips closed anymore. The room’s grown darker now, too, tinted royal blue, but the flush on Billy’s skin is pink and vibrant nonetheless.

It takes a little longer to push him to the edge because he’s just come, but it’s not substantial. He still wonders if when Billy actually goes into heat - if he even goes through a regular heat with all the pills he’s on - all it takes is a few thoughtful circles around his dick to make him keen and gush.

“Fuck, fuck,” Billy babbles into the sheets. “‘m gonna come, _shit_.”

He goes off-kilter, unbalanced, as he moves one hand between his legs. Not even embarrassed about needing to play with himself. Steve manages to stop him before he can even make contact, taking Billy’s thick wrist in a tight grip. Billy whimpers pathetically in response and turns over his shoulder. Pleads with his pinched brows and parted lips.

“No hands; you come on my dick, or you don’t get to come.”

It’s especially cruel but he knows Billy can do it. He’s seen him do it before. They were fooling around in the showers one time after P.E. and he managed to make Billy come just from playing with his asshole and sucking on his nipples for a while. Made a real pretty sound when he did, too.

There’s a thick heat radiating between Billy’s legs. The toy squelches as it pounds into him. He might be dripping. Steve’s already got one knee in the cooling mess he made minutes ago. It was time to give the sheets a proper wash again anyway.

Billy grunts, frustrated, when Steve starts to slow his pace, but his hips are sore and the nylon is already going to leave angry red stripes over his skin in a pattern he won’t be able to explain. He tries to compensate by pounding in as deep as he can and moving in languid circles, these little jerking, hiccup-y movements.

“I can’t, I can’t,” Billy rasps in defiance, “fuck, _Steve_ , I’m so close, touch my dick, _c’mon_ -”

Steve nearly wheezes out a laugh. “I already told you no. And I _know_ you can do it, baby, you just gotta try a little harder, but you better be quick because I’m getting a _little_ tired of waiting.”

Billy nearly sobs. If Steve could get a proper look at his face, his eyes would be shining. Fat tears sitting on his lashline ready to fall. It wouldn’t be the first time Billy’s cried during sex.

The actual first time Steve had finally been allowed to return the favor and Billy, not thinking he had the balls to get him off, to really commit to the queer shit despite stating point blank that Billy being an omega wasn’t any kind of a deterrent, dared him to fuck him until he couldn’t anymore. And Steve did — fucked him on three fingers until Billy had soaked the backseat of the Camaro and his eyes were glassy, the ruddy apples of his cheeks sticky with tears, hiccuping as he clawed up the leather detailing.

Steve knows what’ll do him in. He drapes himself over Billy’s sweat-slick back and inhales at the back of his neck. There’s the slightest hint of his natural scent that slips under all his pills and fruity hair products, the pool chemicals and sweat and faded sunscreen, this close up.

One hand travels to the thin dips of his rib cage to one puffy nipple and Steve pinches, cups Billy’s tit in his hand. The other sits just under his navel and presses. If he digs in hard enough, he can feel the way Billy death-grips the ribbed silicone.

“C’mon, you got it,” he softly tells the top knob of Billy’s spine. Billy’s shaking his head like he’s trying to make himself dizzy, in denial over it. Steve kisses the back of his neck. “Lemme see you come.”

He doesn’t even brush over Billy’s dick; he just moves his hand down to where the slick silicone stretches him open and teases a fingertip over the thin skin that connects them, and Billy’s _gone_.

It’s like his bones are breaking, a building crumbling to rubble in an earthquake, as he tenses up and lets out the most devastating whine Steve’s ever heard. Pulled straight from the back of his throat and drawn out, long and raw without shame and teeth to keep it restrained.

Steve’s minorly disappointed he didn’t get Billy to squirt, but it’s a real process with him. Has to work him up just right, for just long enough, to make him really gush. He comes so easy anyway that should more than make up for it, but it’s not enough.

Billy’s knees give out after, and the piece slips out of him with a jarringly wet sound as he sinks bonelessly into the mattress, chest heaving. Steve can only watch in awe at the splotches of sex flush that have bloomed across his skin, the dew drops of sweat collected in the dip of his spine and running down his thighs. The toy is liberally coated in a layer of dripping slick that connects to Billy’s cunt in a dewy string.

When Steve rubs a thumb between his puffy folds where his hole is red and pulsing, fever hot, Billy shivers. Tries to fold his legs and cut off access. He’s hiding his face in the mattress and trying not to quake and quiver like a dried autumnal leaf fighting the assault of winter’s wind. Something about it makes Steve’s chest ache, the position suiting Billy in a way that’s the opposite of comforting. Like he’s maybe spent too much time like this, and not after something like sex.

He loosens the straps, hisses as cool evening air grazes the angry red stripes now sanded into his hips and thighs, the outer edges of his asscheeks, and drops the contraption in the open bedside drawer. Cleanup can wait for later.

Tentatively, because Billy’s got claws and teeth and he won’t accept any form of hand packaged, genuine affection, Steve sets a hand on the center of his sweating back and moves to lay down on his stomach next to him. Rests his cheek on one tired arm and quietly watches for signs of life as he strokes down the valley of Billy’s spine with a feather light touch.

He only gets to do this when Billy’s still sated with orgasm, coming down off a high like this, or on the rarest of occasions, maybe two or three times up until this point, when he’s snuck in through the unlocked window after dark and crawled into bed without a word, tucked himself in under Steve’s arm while he was too tired and stunned to question motive.

Eventually Billy snuffles and turns on his side so they’re mirroring one another. Billy’s eyes are wet but there’s no sadness in them. Almost relaxed, dazed. The blue is clear, oceanic, a thin ring of water bordering a growing isle of black.

He doesn’t say anything as he nuzzles closer. Steve silently draws him into his arms and rolls them back into position — when Billy crowded into his lap with a wicked grin. Now Billy lays half on top of him, nose pressed in the crook of Steve’s jaw with one hand stroking over his side, the other tucked uselessly between them.

Steve knows better not to say anything. He’ll get maybe five minutes of this before Billy rolls away from him and pretends this part never happened. Will make some blunt, gross remark that’ll shatter the moment like a speeding baseball through a kitchen window — _crash!_ He won’t get a sorry for this afternoon, because he’ll probably have to pry a verbal _I’m sorry_ out of Billy’s cold, dead hands if he ever wants one directly.

For now, Steve will take the careful hand in the dip of his waist and the soft puffs of air tickling his neck as an apology. Will, in a twisted, sort of sad way, take it as Billy secretly wanting more, like he maybe does, too.

For now, Billy’s forgiven.

☆

Billy doesn’t smell like an omega.

Everyone has something distinct and singular about their natural scent regardless of classification but there’s _always_ a note of sweetness to an omega. Honey, vanilla, buttercream. An constant undercurrent of something sugary.

Billy takes blockers and uses cologne to cover up the suspicious lack of natural scent - a dead giveaway on its own, because you’ll rarely find a beta or alpha using any kind of blocker or scent suppressant - with this overpowering gourmand and spice. Something synthetic sold to get omega bitches wet faster, or for vanity, to enhance what comes naturally.

Either way, Billy _reeks_ of it. Steve can smell it smeared over his neck, making his skin taste bitter, and low on his body, where his nose is often pressed into those cropped curls. He can easily envision Billy rubbing a cologne-soaked hand under the waistband of his jeans before he leaves the house.

But nothing can cover up the syrupy scent in the warm, tight place between Billy’s thighs. That’s always the dead ringer. Honey and spice, orange blossom. Under the blockers and artificial sprays, _that’s_ what Billy’s meant to smell like. When he’s going down on him, Steve can’t get enough of it.

Steve didn’t find out Billy was an omega right away.

Not only was he already part of the foolish general populace that believed the beta charade, but the first few times they hooked up, Billy would _immediately_ crawl between his legs and get to work. Eat him out like a man starved, suckle on his cock until Steve was overstimulated and had to push his head away with a choked whimper. Would plug him up with calloused fingers that curled into every spot that sparked Steve’s nerves alight with fire and ice.

Loved to make Steve squirm by telling him how sweet his _pussy_ tasted, how tight he was.

(Says the same things, now, too, with this tone of adoration that knots up Steve’s insides.)

“I already told you,” Billy would always say after, already pulling his phone out of his pocket and clicking his vape back on, wiping slick off his pink, pink lips with the back of his hand, “I’m _fine_ , Harrington; I get myself off better than anyone else ever will, so stop fuckin’ bugging me about it. You that easy?”

And Steve would just sit there, half dressed and feeling stung, wouldn’t even try to push the matter any further, and Billy would leave shortly after without another word.

Enter three weeks later, Billy showing up at two o’clock in the morning with a five minute text warning, standing in Steve’s entryway reeking of pheromones and running a scalding fever.

Steve didn’t make any snide remarks or jabs the whole three days they spent curled up in his room together.

He offered nothing scathing about how old-fashioned and unnecessary it was, covering up his identity, or how Billy maybe deserved a surprise - see earlier: _regular_ \- heat after being such a dick to him while he was going through his last cycle. He didn’t ask any questions as he lay between Billy’s shaking legs, fucking into him with his fingers, his tongue, anything out of his bedside drawer Billy would greedily take.

For three days he’d bathed in Billy’s natural scent until it overpowered his own and asked for nothing in return. No drawn out explanation, no hasty three word answers just — observed and absorbed what Billy could come crashing down to at his neediest and most vulnerable.

It was only after, rushing to do laundry and air out the house before his parents came back from a conference in Philly, when Steve gave a hint that he deserved to know _why_ , that Billy fessed up.

“I ran out of my birth control two weeks ago. The pharmacy couldn’t get the brand I need in time and my heat hit,” was the only offered explanation at the time.

Now he’s also got the full story as to why Billy hides behind a publicly projected illusion.

Just thinking about the why’s and how’s of his closeting makes Steve’s skin prickle, his blood boil into molten lava. Makes him want to rip Neil Hargrove’s jugular out with his bare teeth and wear his blood like warpaint, a mark of victory. Crimson would suit him.

There are more culprits to go after but Billy’s father is the main and least geographically distant perpetrator here. Has done the most - and lasting - damage. He’ll have to go first. But unless Billy asks, Steve won’t even make eye contact with the man.

Instead, he ruminates in his private fury, whenever the thoughts bubble back up.

He also knows that Billy, he’s a _full_ queer. Has said so himself. Doesn’t like alphas. Their scents do nothing for him and to him, there’s no appeal in a knot, or of getting plugged up to be fucked full of come. He’d once said, too - with his thumb crooked inside Steve’s ass while Steve was riding his strap, both situated on the angled driver’s seat in the Camaro - that he’s only taken beta cock when he’s desperate enough, and only because there’s no bulb and less mess, but cunt is his _real_ favorite flavor, and more specifically, when it belongs to an omega.

God, Billy could babble on for fucking _hours_ about how much he loves snatch. Could wax poetic about how, no matter how much good sex he’s had, there’s nothing better than some uptight omega bitch finding god on his fingers and mouth for the first time, finally learning that coming was possible outside of a pump-and-dump heat session, and that dick was overrated.

He could probably do the same with how _advantageous_ pretending to be a beta out here can be - could find enough of _his type_ back in Cali that he didn’t have to pretend around them - because he can get even more top this way, because _most_ anyone was down to clown with a beta, especially if that beta happened to be _him_.

Steve’s been privy to a lot of these kinds of conversations.

“I ate Carol out once,” Billy had sighed one time, all while he had Steve tied up to the king size in his parents’ master suite, claiming he couldn’t bind him as well without proper bedposts, “when her and Tommy were on a break, like right when I moved here. She’s _goddamn_ loud. Wanted it so fuckin’ bad.” He’d given Steve’s cock one solid rub to keep him attentive. “And Tommy — you’ve fucked him, right?”

Steve hadn’t wanted to tell the truth but he did. “A few times, yeah.”

Billy had shivered and started to stroke himself slowly between two fingers. Wouldn’t let Steve touch him. Had pushed a little vibrating egg up inside of him and said he could only come when told. That was growing increasingly more difficult, even with the absence of pressure on his dick, which was often key in his undoing.

“God, she tasted _so_ good,” Billy had mused, “nothing close to you, baby; I mean it when I say your pussy is the juiciest, sweetest thing I’ve ever got my mouth on, _fuck_ , but damn did she taste nice, even if she was a little sour.”

Situating himself just over Steve’s face, he’d spread his labia apart within Steve’s eyeline. The light overhead had cast his body in rich shadows. Regardless, this close, Steve could still see how pink he was inside.

Once Billy had found his seat, rocked his hips a little on Steve’s tongue to find the right spot, he’d continued. “I’d love to watch you bounce on Tommy’s dick, y’know, really get to watch you take it, mm, get all drippy and creamy when he comes inside of you,” and then he’d hummed to himself, frowning a little, “actually, fuck that. I don’t want that needy son of a bitch sticking his cock in you again.” Then he’d tugged on Steve’s hair and squeezed the sides of his head between his knees. “How about you just let _me_ take care of you for now, huh? Does that sound good?”

That had happened right after Valentine’s Day.

He hadn’t told Billy that _he_ was the only one he was sleeping with. That he’d dropped his last casual side piece, some pretty alpha named Shelby from the varsity volleyball team with curly red hair and rich brown skin and a really thick, uncut cock, two weeks into Billy dragging him out to the quarry to fuck before they started switching locations.

It would have only been _fair_ to mention the cute little sighs she made when she came inside of him, or how she liked to slide her dick up his cunt, frotting against him, before sinking into him. But he didn’t, and he still hasn’t brought it up, even when he’s been pissed at Billy for shoving him down in practice a little too hard or sending him snaps at one A.M. of him doing E with Tommy’s older brother DJ at a weekend kegger, when he’d said he’d come over earlier that evening for _plans_.

But because Billy has stopped talking about his past hookups altogether, he doesn’t meet him on his own level.

When Billy used to wax and wane about other people while they were fucking, it used to make Steve feel so used but so _hot_ at the same fucking time. Had him all mixed up inside. Maybe he’s got an underlying thing for being jealous. He still doesn’t know.

Especially after spending the back half of his last relationship carefully watching the way Nancy would look at Jonathan as he slid into her, like he held all the answers in his dick or something, and he was in turn finding heaven inside of _her_ , while Steve was often left spent and dozing on the fluffy pastel pillows of Nancy’s bed wondering if either of them _ever_ looked at him like that.

Especially when it started happening outside of their intimate exchanges.

Because while his gut would twist sourly every time he’d see that extra special sparkle in their eyes, saved only for each other, it also made him try that much harder to earn their affections, and somehow come that much harder when he was sandwiched between them, their lips and teeth on his skin while their knuckles bumped together as they both stroked him from the inside.

Really, Steve doesn’t think he wants to know if he’s got a thing for being jealous, or wanting to make people jealous, because it splits him down the middle, between being motivated and feeling like absolute shit.

After one incident purposely initiated by Steve, egging Billy on to see just what would happen if he pushed him far enough by flirting with other people, he found his ass spanked so raw that no amount of lotion or ice or mumbled apologies - which Steve had never experienced from him before and hasn’t so directly since - paired with kisses could balm it.

Another time Billy had taken a conversation he’d heard between Jonathan and Steve the _complete_ wrong way and had ignored Steve for _days_ afterwards, until Steve had pushed his way into the right bathroom at the right time and made Billy understand what had actually happened.

The nauseous turning in his own gut that’s always come after being wrapped up in a jealous fit isn’t worth it. Seeing the way Billy’s eyes spark and flash with a flame completely devoid of desire, after misunderstanding whatever situation to the point he had, isn’t worth it.

Really, Steve wishes they’d just stop playing games altogether.

He’s grateful for Billy completely dropping his storytimes of past hookups and seemingly deleting everyone off his phone that was once on his personal booty call list, if not also going cold turkey when it comes to casually hooking up with other people, but —

It doesn’t change all that’s happened, or all that will happen.

Neither does it ease the way Steve is constantly, hungrily seeking Billy’s attention and approval out or the way his chest has started to cave in when Billy stays a few extra minutes to enjoy the post-orgasmic bliss, or initiates a casual kick back instead of simply using it as a pretense to try and get his hand down Steve’s pants and coax a few fingers inside of him, a guise of his own bullshit version of _Netflix and Chill._

All he wants, Steve’s found, is that he wants _Billy_. No bullshit, no fronting, no games. He wants Billy, warts and fucking all.

Frankly, Steve’s fucked himself.

☆

They’ve been back from spring break for a week now and this is the, what, fourth time this has happened? _Why_ does he let this keep happening?

Denim-clad knees skid on the grimy north wing bathroom floor as he sucks a ring of teeth into Billy’s hip. His All Stars slide across the matte tiling with a loud squeak and he keeps having to adjust how he sits.

There’s a purpling bruise in an unmistakable thumb shape on Billy’s chin. There are more tucked under on his neck in a similar silhouette, but longer, curving around his windpipe. Steve’s mouth goes lax when he realizes what it means.

Billy immediately tugs on his hair and he hisses. Glares up at him petulantly.

“ _Ow_ , what?” he whispers harshly.

Billy scowls right back. “Hurry up, I’m not gonna miss that lecture in gov because you can’t get to fucking work.”

“We graduate in like, a month; why’re you so spazzed about a lecture?”

“Because Mathers is doing early finals review and all she puts on her finals is stuff from lectures, duh, fucknut.”

Steve rolls his eyes and decides to get to work. Decides not to focus on the bruises or being called a ‘fucknut’. He parts Billy open with his fingers and licks between them. Revels in the undercurrent of his scent and how some twisted part of him is soothed by it — bright and spicy and so Billy at the same time.

He really shouldn’t be missing class. He’s right on the edge of the bare minimum to pass, even with all the makeup work he’s been doing to be able to walk with everyone else.

And Billy’s a dick but he doesn’t want to fail out of high school; he’s got pretty good grades for someone that gives the blatant air of not caring about jack fucking shit.

Like when he doesn’t have his hand down Steve’s pants, he’s been _kind of_ helping tutor him with the things the general populace believes he’s far past salvation for. His grades are definitely better now than they have been probably ever, and Billy’s a better tutor than Nancy was; easily working with freshmen and French classmates doesn’t mean she has the explanatory skills or patience Steve needs.

That and Billy uses hookup apps to get his Adderall supply, and Steve’s parents ignore the fact that he’s been diagnosed with ADD _multiple_ times by licensed specialists in and out of school since childhood and won’t send him to therapy for it or get him a prescription, because _it’s not going to matter anyway_ ; it’s not like he’ll be _working_ for the rest of his life.

When Billy heard that bullshit remark during a very frustrating homework session that had Steve furiously scrubbing at his eyes because he couldn’t focus on the assignments, thoughts completely scattered, he showed up with a baggy full of pills two days later.

At least Steve can focus on _this_ without an aid.

Billy lets out this long, content purr when Steve’s nose bumps up against his dick. Shimmies his hips down a little and loosens his grip on Steve’s hair. Steve sets a hand on his thigh, trying to hold him more open like Billy’s legs aren’t barely parted because his tight jeans are trapped around his ankles, and sucks his cock fully into his mouth.

When Billy’s not being a douchebag, Steve could probably stay between his legs for hours, maybe days. Not even actively getting him off, but just breathing him in, nosing the sensitive spots high up on his inner thighs, where that spiced honey and orange peel can’t be completely masked.

Where he can sink his teeth into the pale, vulnerable flesh and take a bite.

Something about Billy’s smell calms him. It revs his heartrate up, too, because he can really only catch a whiff in moments like this, but despite how much it makes him ache between his legs, it also makes him feel high, coming straight off a burn cruise, dopey and sated and feeling like nothing matters.

He gathers the growing slick on his tongue and swallows. Keeps dipping his tongue between silky soft folds and lapping the wet up. All tangy and bright.

Despite the blockers and pills, Billy still leaks easy. A near-constant drip. He’s always making some pornographic remark about how wet and tight Steve is, but he doesn’t fare any better. Comes with a snap of fingers if Steve spends just a little too much time applying direct contact to his dick.

Steve is _still_ trying to get him to squirt easier. Nothing yet.

Using his back to angle his hips forward, Billy pushes back against the gritty wall tiling as leverage. Pants as he rides against Steve’s face, wriggling his hips and biting back a grin when Steve stifles a moan between parted lips. A handful of minutes pass like that until he shivers and pinches his eyes shut. Steve gives his cock one more long suck before Billy bats him away with a cut-off hiss.

As Billy retreats, tight jeans still stuck around his ankles, his ripped Poison tank top tilted sideways and exposing a pinched brown nipple, he rubs a thumb over Steve’s swollen bottom lip. Steve lets him feed the lip gloss-smear of slick into his mouth.

At least he didn’t take a picture of it this time. There’s a hidden folder on Billy’s phone built on photos of Steve looking fucked to all hell after fucking Billy, or getting fucked himself. He started it a little while back, the first time they hooked up at school.

He can still smell that cinnamon, clove honey, peeled citrus drying over his philtrum, his bruised lips, after Billy sends him back to class without reciprocation. He aches the whole period — in his jeans, in the growing crater of his chest.

After school, he’s stuck waiting for the kids outside of the arcade, still horny and stuck in his head. The soft loop of Harry Styles on the car stereo is only slightly comforting; once the kids are back it’s going to be a whole thing about whose music they get to play.

He doesn’t know what the _fuck_ he’s going to do about this Billy situation. The pro-con list he’s been mentally building up has offered no insight. It’s like he’s only arguing with himself and about what he doesn’t really know. So far, he has:

 _Pros:_ good sex, really pretty, smells amazing, good weed, pill supply, can hold liquor, (can be) sweet, has job, will watch almost anything (TV, movies), smart

 _Cons:_ only wants sex, douchey, super flakey + ignores texts, slutty (ok same but ??), comes over w/o asking, leaves w/o saying anything, emotional constipation, daddy issues?, judgey about music

and _none_ of it helps.

Suddenly his phone chimes and it scares him so bad he nearly tosses it out the open car window. Of course it has to be Billy.

**hey u alone**

Steve eyes the notification for a second. Mulls it over. He gave the kids a fifteen minute warning like, maybe five minutes ago.

_I’m still waiting @ the arcade w the nerds_

Really he should ask why he got stuck with the task of taking Max today, too - he drives a compact, it’s not like he can just _fit_ six growing children in a five seater with one spot already taken, but luckily El isn’t there today because she has after school tutoring - and why Billy’s not here to be doing his _job_ of being a proactive sibling - _step sibling_ , god forbid he forget that key detail - and still at the school instead.

**oh duh lmao**

**but rn you’re alone right**

Steve shoots a glance at the blackout arcade door, then around to see he’s still the only car parked in front. Well.

_For like 5 more minutes_

_Why?_

**just wanted to say sorry for earlier**

**i didn’t mean to leave you like that 💞**

**i’ve been late to mathers a shitload and if i was super late again she was gonna dock my grade for the final**

**like ok bitch sorry i’m busy?**

Steve snorts.

_Are you gonna make it up to me?_

**i can come over tonight**

**really wanna use my hitachi on you**

**watch you come on it**

**bet you’ll get real juicy 👅💞**

Jesus _fuck_ that’s unfair. Steve wiggles uncomfortably in his seat. Pops the collar on his baby pink polo and attempts to fan himself with it. A group of kids around his nerds’ age come pouring out of the arcade then and throw him weird looks. Steve stops fanning himself with his collar.

**btw i stuck you w max for a reason**

**when you drop her off i’ll tell you why**

**maybe i’ll get something later too?**

Of course that’s what Billy wants.

_You already got off earlier_

_What makes you think you deserve to again?_

_Esp bc I still have to wait :(_

**you’re right baby**

**that’s not fair of me**

**but i also can’t stop thinking about that other day**

**you know when you fucked me rly hard?**

**i was all sore after i couldn’t play w myself**

**it was so fuckin hot**

Steve bites his lip. The kids might be out in a minute. They’ll see his red face if they can’t already smell him. God he’s a fucking disaster.

_Yeah? You want me to strap up again?_

**mm maybe**

**just wanna be with you 💕**

**you always make me feel so good**

**i should’ve let fuck me like way earlier**

**guess you gotta make up for it now**

It’s the shit like this that tangles Steve up inside. The slight insinuation of something soft, of Billy’s capabilities of being more tender, and then it immediately rounds back to sex. Like yeah, _really_ good sex, but still. He needs to say something about it. What though, he’s not sure.

All he sends back is: _Guess so_

When the kids finally pile out of the arcade and into the car, having to puzzle piece themselves into the backseat. Steve has to convince Dustin to take the back _just for now, I promise_ , because Max just needs a ride back to the school.

Lucas is smushed against the window, Poor Will is balanced between Lucas’ and Mike’s laps, Mike is forced into the hump seat - “Mike if you call that the bitch seat _one more time_ I’m going to smack you, _Jesus_.” - while Dustin crams in and glares at the back of Max’s head.

Back at the school, trading spaces and rearranging themselves for the ride home, Billy slinks over to the Beamer with a stack of papers in hand. Dustin glares at him over the top of the car regardless of how many times Steve tells him to back down.

“For that assignment,” Billy says nonchalantly, “some honor student sap does tutoring groups in the computer lab and makes these cheat sheet study guides for everything. I had to sneak in pretending I needed help to get one.” He presses the papers against Steve’s chest, “Hope it uh, helps.”

Steve’s dumbstruck by it and can only look down at the packet in hand, at Billy’s handwriting, unexpectedly neat, scrawled in the margins between questions. Little vocab terms marked with stars, resources hastily scribbled the bottom of the page.

He’s trying to think of how to say thank you in a way that doesn’t come off as totally flustered when Dustin pipes up, goes, out of absolutely nowhere, “Put your tits away, Fabio, no one wants to see that!”

Billy looks down at his mostly exposed chest and then back at Dustin until Dustin, still glaring, sinks back down into his seat. Steve tries to cover his laugh with a cough miserably. Billy just snorts and crosses his arms. It’s like he’s about to say well, _something_ , when Dustin’s muffled _let’s go, Steve!_ breaks the moment.

 _Christ_.

“Y’know, I should, uh, get the brats home,” Steve stumbles over the words, “and get back to, my, uh, homework. Yeah.”

“You go do that, Harrington.” Billy smirks. “I’ll text you later, yeah?” he adds quietly.

Steve nods and nearly knocks the top of his head off getting back into the car. The sound of it is dull and loud but it doesn’t even hurt - not immediately, at least - because Billy turns around from the shock of bone hitting metal and bursts out laughing, shaking his head and making a show of being extra careful not to do the same as he slips into the Camaro.

It’s only once they pull out of the parking lot that Lucas, very loudly from the backseat, says, “Okay, what the _hell_ was that?”

☆

Billy comes over the _following_ evening.

He doesn’t know why he got his hopes up.

The only warning sign Steve has that Billy’s outside are the pebbles tossed a little too hard at his window. He’s still pissed about being blown off again _and_ he’s desperately trying to finish all the makeup work due Friday tonight now so he can breathe a little easier. Doesn’t even want to _look_ at the notes Billy got him anymore.

He’s been texting Dustin on and off because he’s been sending an onslaught encouraging memes, because the kid always manages to keep his spirits up, but the sounds of the little rocks continually going _tink tink_ against the glass is _really_ distracting.

Steve doesn’t want to open the window; there’s a swampy heat hanging muggy in the air, thickening it into a rue, and the A/C is on. Summer’s hitting far too early. And his parents are home for once — Mom’s probably watching The Bachelor in bed while Dad glares down at reports next to her, ignoring her animated commentary and muttering about how the quality of alphas on the show is rapidly declining.

Stupidly, Steve opens the window anyway.

Thrusting them open, he hisses out, “Jesus Christ, _you_ have got some fucking nerve, my parents are home and I’m -” and then he sees it, how Billy’s left eye is nearly sealed shut. Even from the second floor he can see it, angry and red, spreading down his cheek in an inky bloom. His stomach drops in a way he’s become too accustomed to with Billy; any elation drops to through his stomach with the suddenness of an elevator accordioning into a basement floor. “Fuck, I, _dammit_ , meet me in the front.”

He tiptoes down the stairs as quietly as he can, makes a lame excuse for a glass of water when Dad suddenly, pointedly asks where he _thinks_ he’s going. For all the aged opinions on what Steve needs doing with his life, treating him like an incompetent by way of being stupid and useless on his own is something Steve will never grown accustomed to.

He throws a middle finger over his shoulder before he pads across the entryway and unlocks, opens the door at a snail’s pace. Careful of a possible creak or whine of the door jam that could alert anything other than the fridge door opening. Billy’s already standing there under the fluorescent porch light in some cut-off cotton shorts and an oversized, threadbare Metallica tee. The _Four Horsemen_ design is starting to flake.

Billy shies away from the harsh, investigative beam of the light, casting his bruised side in deep shadow. It’s deja vu. Showing up on the Harringtons’ doorstep for the umpteenth time doesn’t offer Steve any sort of comforting feeling. Maybe under different circumstances he’d feel warm, grateful for Billy trusting him enough to come to him as a sort of refuge in these moments of weakness and pain.

Instead, the memory of Billy’s knuckles pressing his tongue into his teeth is fonder.

Because Billy just has nowhere else to go, no one else who knows. It’s for convenience’s sake, and because he’s forced Steve into a corner of compliance — signed a don’t ask, don’t tell agreement. Steve’s tried to do both of those things and learned it’s worse than facing the actual consequences of punishing an adult alpha who lays hands on his omega child.

Steve puts a finger to his lips as Billy carefully toes his way into the house. He nods curtly in understanding before the two quietly pad up the stairs. In the safe confines of his bedroom, Steve clicks the lock on the door and readies himself to brave this storm.

Because he _is_ still pissed off after being blown off. Again. Because Billy couldn’t even text him and tell him he couldn’t actually get out of the house. But Billy’s also here looking like _this_ , even though the gash in his lip and the swollen eye are clearly fresh. Couldn’t have happened last night.

He wants to ask _what happened_ and _what’s wrong_ because it comes so naturally, the pinched arch of his brows and the questions he’s not allowed to ask, but instead he leans his back against the door and sighs, crosses his arms. Looks at the fuzzy carpet pinched between his toes instead of Billy lingering at the edge of his bed.

Only when the mattress creaks with weight, does Steve look up. He’s learned not to do anything until Billy settles. That means his razored edges have smoothed a little, that he’s tucked his teeth away. He usually doesn’t want comfort but if on the off-chance he does, he’ll make the first move.

The most Steve can do right now is sit down next to him on the bed. Billy smells like Neil’s hands — the acrid, overpowering musk of an alpha predator that gets off on power trips, playing with his prey before devouring; _meat tastes sweeter when it dies scared_. His stomach flips unpleasantly.

Their bare knees touch, the little hairs tickling the blunt edge of bone with something electric, bright like a nebula orb, activated by contact. Billy’s lip is badly split on one side. Browning but barely starting to scab over. There’s blood smeared down his chin, like whoever - Neil - hit him got him at an angle, or Billy tried to stop the bleeding by rubbing at his face.

Steve bites into his tongue because he can still feel the cut of Billy’s ring on his mouth from back in November. He bites down harder. The cut of pain makes it easier to suppress the desire to comb Billy’s hair over his ear so he can see his face better.

“About yesterday,” Billy clears his throat. “I _was_ gonna come over. But _he_ took my keys during dinner, fucking took my phone too. I don’t know why. He even slept in the living room so he could hear my door close or the window unlock. I felt like shit and I didn’t wanna dump that on you at school.”

Steve nods. Lets it sink in. Tries not to feel like a total asshole, because that definitely hasn’t been the case before.

“What about tonight? I’m gonna take a guess that all this, it’s not from last night.”

Billy tilts his head to the side and snorts. “Good guess, pretty boy. Nah, tonight, he was just saying shit,” he explains, “fuckin’ awful shit about omegas, about _me_ , like pretending to be a beta doesn’t fool fuckin’ anyone, that someone’s gonna see through it and give me what I _deserve_.” His hands clench up at his sides. “I shouldn’t- I _know_ better than to fuckin’ listen, you know? Because that’s what he wants me to do, get mad and fight back, so he’s got an _excuse_ to hit me.”

 _He shouldn’t be looking for a reason to hit you_ , Steve wants to argue, _because he shouldn’t fucking touch you in the first place._

There’s this thing they’ve gone over in their classification studies courses time and time again — about how alphas can get dangerously protective of their prospective partners, like growling, teeth gnashing, level protective, because it’s supposedly some ingrained, primal instinct that hasn’t been totally shed out of genetic code, and it can get triggered when that potential partner feels unsafe or is in probable danger.

And someone who always thinks they’re a fucking comedian asks if people with betas or omegas can get the same way _because my girlfriend’s an omega and she’ll rip anyone’s throat out if they even look at me_ ; but it’s not just alphas that can launch into apex protector mode under the right circumstances.

Alphas just have a weird, outdated reputation for showing it on their faces first, but anyone regardless of their classification, secondary sex characteristics, fucking _whatever_ , can unlock that feature.

Steve can attest to that.

He’s just never felt it as fiercely as he does with Billy. Billy’s seen his hackles rise at the bruises and cuts, or even if he’s just in a bad mood from a long night of berating where his father hasn’t laid a finger on him, and always quips at his mother hening — _love to see you pull that shit with some real pups instead of those kids, pretty boy; people’d be missing fuckin’ fingers around you, Mama Bear_.

Right now, he’s looking at Billy’s bruised neck and clenched fists, listening to the dampness of his voice and he could drive over to Cherry Lane and bury his nail bat - an over the top Halloween prop Jonathan made for him a few years back - into Neil Hargrove’s skull without an ounce of guilt to curdle his scent as he wiped the blood from his brow.

Hell, he might even come right back and fuck Billy halfway to a coma, he’d be so goddamn euphoric.

But he doesn’t. And he won’t.

Instead he rests his hand on the back of Billy’s neck and rubs. Digs his fingers in and moves them in a rhythm like he’s clenching and unclenching his fist, stretching the tendons. Hopes Billy doesn’t duck from under his touch. Luckily he doesn’t — he doesn’t quite purr, too out of it to manage, but he does make this sweet, short rumble and tilt his head back a little.

“Can I bum a shower?” he asks after a minute. His eyes are closed. “I can fuckin’ smell him on me.”

Steve removes his hand as an answer. Watches Billy leave for the adjoining bathroom and leave the door open — an invitation for something Steve won’t give him right now.

Billy fucks to get things off his mind. Steve’s learned he doesn’t have a more cathartic healing process. Billy ucks so he doesn’t have to process or think or focus on the issue - or really, _issues_ \- at hand.

He’s found himself caught in various webs spun out of Billy’s persistent need to bury his problems. Teeth on his neck and a hand on his zipper within moments because Steve always wants it when it comes to Billy, as frustrating as that truth is, even if he’s still going to see the bruises or the far-off, dissociative glaze to Billy’s eyes while the sweat cools tacky on their skin.

Maybe this is why they have so much sex. It always being _really_ great is definitely a factor, but Steve might understand the double entendre. He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

He enters the bathroom anyway. Sits on the toilet lid with his phone cupped loosely in his palms while Billy gingerly undresses to the right of him. Steve’s phone buzzes with alerts from the kids’ group chat and Nancy reminding him to look over her notes for the five thousandth time; he’ll look at them later.

Billy’s shoes are kicked off haphazardly and his clothes are pooled around his ankles, shed like a second skin. The shower starts running next. He closes the door as steam starts to billow from behind the curtain. It’s too hot for a scalding shower even if the air conditioner in Steve’s room is blasting air cold enough to goosepimple even Billy’s constantly overheated skin.

But he understands why Billy does it. Why he needs to scrub his father’s violence from his skin.

Billy disappears into the shower without a word — he just eyes Steve briefly before pulling the curtain closed behind himself. Steve looks down at his phone again and sighs. It’s useless pretending that he’s not going to join Billy, because after the first few times this happened, that’s just what he does, unless Billy’s snapped at him and made him wait outside.

The long looks and tense silence is as clear an invitation as Billy will offer him at this point so Steve sheds his own t-shirt, some fitted grey tee that clings too tightly to his chest and waist and under his armpits, then toes his socks off. Lets his joggers and underwear fall in a tangled heap onto the tile.

In the steamy enclosure of the shower stall, Billy’s got his forehead pressed to the cool tile protected from the boiling water. Besides the fingerprints on his throat, torn lip, the blooming imprint of knuckles on his cheek swelling his eye closed, there’s a mottled mark of color spreading across his ribs.

Steve winces and his bones ache with sympathy. “Fuck.” His hands linger at his sides but he doesn’t reach out; not yet. Instead, he asks, “ _Really_ rough night, huh?”

Because Billy doesn’t want apologies. He doesn’t want kisses and cuddles and teary _I’m sorry’_ s. Or at least he says he doesn’t. Maybe it’s just another thing he doesn’t think he deserves — not from Steve, or anyone else.

He’s said it all makes him feel like he’s just some defenseless little omega bitch and who can’t fight his own battles, that needs to be taken care of because he’s incapable of doing anything on his own. And Steve gets that to a degree, because that’s how his parents see him, and that’s why he’d slept around and had been a dick for so long and it never made it okay or valid to do some of the things he did, but because of that, he understands Billy’s overbearingly stubborn reason as to why he operates the way he does.

And regardless of how Billy fights the careful hands and gentle words and everything genuine that Steve could give him - and so badly wants to give him, he’s fearfully learning - fights it tooth and fucking nail, it doesn’t mean that Steve’s not going to keep trying.

He just has to approach it from a different angle to keep Billy within an arm’s reach.

“You could say that,” Billy mumbles into the tile. “Hurts like a fucking bitch.”

Steve carefully cups Billy’s elbow in his palm. “I’ll get you some peas or something afterwards.”

Billy grunts a reply and turns into the water. Steve lets him hog it. Doesn’t really need another shower. He crowds up close behind him and plays with his wet curls when Billy starts to shampoo, helps card the floral suds out of his hair as he rinses and conditions. Massages in the creamy substance and makes Billy hum for a moment.

He stops suddenly and goes, “Don’t need you taking care of me, pretty boy.”

Steve pauses his ministrations. “I’m just helping, calm down. And don’t act like you weren’t about to purr a second ago.”

Billy’s got no reply to that and lets him keep it up. Eventually lets Steve dab the dried blood from his mouth properly with a washcloth. Most of it is just a crusty splatter, no injury underneath, but his lip itself is definitely busted. Either caught cut on Neil’s knuckle at a sour angle or he bit into it on impact. Or Neil has a ring, too, that he secretly brandishes as a weapon to brand.

Without asking, Steve goes for the bar soap drying on the top of the shower ledge, a warped oval thing sporting a faded pink and red swirl with little strawberry seeds mixed in, smelling like creamed berries and vanilla. It compliments Steve’s smell rather than overpowers it.

Billy stiffens in warning. “Harrington -”

“Your ribs are fucked, just,” Steve rolls his eyes, “let me do this, alright? You can be mad at me later when you can actually get your arm up all the way.”

It’s quiet while Billy indulges him. Lifts his arms accordingly, steadies himself on Steve’s arm when he gets to his angrily bruised ribs. Steve holds his breath as he

passes over the skin with all the gentleness he can muster. The muffled hiss Billy bites back does nothing but worry him.

What if his ribs are cracked? What if one’s broken? Christ, what if one’s _shattered_ and makes it hard for him to _breathe_ and a fragment’s broken off and is stabbing him in the lungs and he bleeds out and _dies_ because -

“Steve.” It’s almost quiet enough that he misses it. “You’ve done that three times. Can we keep going so I can get out of here and ice it?”

Steve flushes and nods.

Getting to Billy’s thighs is even more nerve wracking than his injuries, which is why he saves it for last. He scrubs careful over the pert swoop of his ass. He maybe manages a careful squeeze just to see what it’ll get him - a huff of a laugh and an elbow in the side - before he moves down, then up, _up_. Uses a corner sans soap to wash between Billy’s legs. It feels like he’s on fire. Warm enough that any water droplets that hit his skin should fizzle on contact.

Billy swallows extra hard when he pays a little extra attention there. Bumps his palm over his dick, soft and tucked up under the hood, rubs a thumb up his taint when he gets there. Billy nips at his ear in retaliation and briefly dunks him under the water.

When all the blood has washed pink down the drain and the boiling water starts to cool, they emerge from the foggy cocoon of the shower. A pattern of normalcy falls back between them.

Steve drapes a towel over Billy’s shoulders and sneaks off downstairs with a towel pinned around his own waist. Luckily finds his parents are asleep, if Dad’s chainsaw snoring is anything to go by. He steals frozen peas and an ice pack from the freezer as well as a bottled Powerade from the fridge and a box of Cheez-It crackers from the pantry. Tiptoes back upstairs as quietly as he can with his arms full.

Billy’s back to sitting on the edge of the mattress looking at his phone. The towel is wrapped around his waist - like his bare ass hasn’t been on the bed a hundred times at this point - and his hair is still wet, dripping down his shoulders and back. Steve sets everything on the top of the dresser and tosses his towel at Billy, smacking him right in the face.

“ _Christ_ , what was that for?”

“The A/C is blasting, dry your fucking hair.”

When Billy just grumbles and sits with the towel draped over his head, still staring down at his phone and occasionally tapping at it, Steve settles behind him on the bed with a sigh. Squeezes the excess water from his curls with the towel the way he’s seen Billy do it coming out of his own pool, gently scrunches the loose ringlets between his fingers, even fluffs Billy’s hair with this styling cream he accidentally left over one time.

Steve keeps the tube tucked amongst his own plethora of products.

Billy whistles when Steve bends over to tug on some underwear — some navy briefs that cut off mid-cheek. Just manages a smirk at Steve’s flushed face before his focus returns to his phone, on whatever the hell has him so preoccupied. Steve tells himself it doesn’t sting. That doing all this and being essentially ignored isn’t something that’s never happened before.

When he mutters about needing to finish this paragraph before he goes to bed, Billy manages a barely perceptible nod.

A half hour passes like that — Steve at his desk, knees tucked under his chin as he attempts to wrap the assignment up in a figurative bow, while Billy sits with the fetched peas on his ribs and the ice pack on his eye, still undressed, phone in his lap. Occasionally Steve hears him steal sips off the Powerade, fruit punch flavor like he favors, and munch on a few crackers.

When the essay is as close to complete as he can make it without really fucking it up, Steve sends it to the printer downstairs and puts a reminder on his phone so he doesn’t forget it in the morning. Now he has to try and get Billy to sleep, because if _Billy_ doesn’t sleep then _he_ won’t sleep, and he’s still worried about the red-blue-purple bruises on his ribs and how silent he’s been this whole time.

He does ignore Billy as he readies himself for bed, though. Goes through the motions of every night he’s alone — lotions his body because he’s still stuck with dry winter skin - thanks Mom - and brushes his teeth - Billy might steal his toothbrush later - uses the toilet before coming back into the bedroom.

Steve leans in the open doorway between both rooms. He clears his throat so Billy will look at him. When Billy does, the ice pack still gently pressed over his eye, Steve gestures to the bed with a flick of his chin.

“C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

Billy nods once. Drops his towels and brings them into the bathroom to dry, then shimmies past him again. Steve watches as Billy moves around his room with an ease, a normalcy he never noticed before.

Tonight he doesn’t rob any underwear for himself, still butt-ass naked as he flits around, but he does borrow Steve’s toothbrush, walks around with it in his mouth like it’s his own as he turns on the bedside lamp and flicks off the one on Steve’s desk. Resaves the document still open before he closes the laptop. Folds the clothes he came over in and sets them on the desk chair.

When he disappears back into the bathroom for a moment, Steve crawls into bed. Takes the side farthest from the window because Billy tends to only stay for a few hours at a time.

He checks his own phone, sees Dustin’s _I gotta go to bed or else my mom’ll take my phone away but you got this!! I believe in you!!_ 🙏and Nancy’s _Jonathan says good luck and remember to cite your sources!_ ☺️💓and skims the group chat with the kids until the bathroom door swings back open and Billy emerges, hair still damp and skin still on full display.

The peas and ice pack are leaving cold indents on the duvet. Billy moves them to the pillow as he sits on the edge of the bed. He sighs tiredly. His head drops between his shoulders and he takes a few deep breaths. Steve watches the rise and fall of his back cautiously.

“Can you,” he pauses for a second, “can I use some of that sticky shit you put on? Chlorine’s a bitch, makes my skin all dry.”

It takes Steve a second to register that - sticky shit? - and then he realizes Billy means the bottle of buttery lotion he has sitting on the flat top of the headboard. He’s never really asked to use it. Has made his distaste for it clear. Billy would also complain that the other lotion he liked, some baby pink, sugary shit that smelled like lime and coconut oil Nancy turned him onto, masked his scent too much. Would snark about how slippery Steve was and would try to rub it off with the sheets.

“Uh, sure man, go ahead.”

Billy nods and takes the bottle, turns it over in his hands, then peers over his shoulder. “Can you do it for me?” he asks, voice so small. “It’s just that my ribs hurt when I move, y’know, and -”

Steve sighs and puts a hand out, motioning with his fingers. “Billy, just give it to me.”

He does.

Carefully Steve pumps some of the cool cream into his hands and smoothes it over Billy’s back, down his arms, dabs over the bruising as lightly as he can. Sidles up behind Billy and presses against his back to soothe it over his chest, down his stomach to his hips. Billy seems to be holding his breath all the while.

He turns wordlessly, facing towards him now, and silently allows Steve to spread lotion down his legs, working it generously into the firm muscle, sparse golden hairs matted down, and eventually presses his thumb into the tender pads of Billy’s feet, making Billy pinch his eyes shut as he digs into a knot.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles.

Billy shrugs and flexes his toes, gently poking Steve in the stomach with his big toe. “Nah, s’fine. Feels nice.”

He’s still warm all over, not goose pimpled from the chilled air like Steve is, secretly wanting to burrow under the blankets. It’s like Billy left California but after all the years in the sand in the surf, skating on the boardwalk and getting crossfaded around bonfires, the sun has permanently baked itself into his skin.

After a moment, Billy rubs a hand down his torso and wipes it on Steve’s knee. “Ugh, I’m all slimey,” he pouts.

Steve snorts. “Well too late now, you wanted me to do it.”

Billy shrugs again. The difference now is the slight smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. It must hurt with the gash in his lip. He itches his nose against his upper arm.

“Well, I like it when you touch me,” Billy admits into his shoulder.

Steve brings his knees to his chest and pokes at Billy’s ankle with the side of his foot. “I’d hope so, seeing as I can’t get you off with like, my mind.”

“Not,” Billy rolls his eyes playfully, “not _just_ in that way, man.”

 _Oh_. Something tugs in Steve’s chest, like pulling a string loose, and before he can think clearly he’s suddenly crowding in, insistent enough that Billy falls sideways and back, still on the mattress. Steve hesitates over him for a moment, so fearful of pushing and stealing this moment of vulnerability for his own selfishness, but when Billy opens his body up, it’s enough of a clarification — _I want this_ and _it’s okay_ and _please just fucking touch me_.

A waxing gibbous moon accompanies the blue pool glow in bathing them in abstract strips of pale light as Steve slips between his legs. Kisses him softly with a hand cupped over his ribs protectively. Billy’s leg locks low on his back and his hands are rough and warm in his hair, down his chest, digging into his hip as he gasps against his lips.

He doesn’t know how long he has Billy pinned to the mattress, but Billy doesn’t stop him at any point. In all the times he’s come over like this seeking sanctuary, he either just wants a rough fuck and a place to sleep, or silence and brief, rare touches for the sake of his nerves until they’ve settled into bed. Nothing like this.

Steve knows Billy can smell how wet he is in his briefs, and he can feel a brush of slick on his thigh from his leg parting Billy’s, but they don’t take any steps further. That’s never really been an option before. Their skin just presses together until every available inch has been ghosted with fingerprints and their kisses turn slow and sloppy and tired.

It’s Billy that caves first. His kisses turn into almost non-responsive drags of his mouth and Steve pulls back, equally touch-drunk and exhausted.

He maneuvers them under the covers and ignores the boa constructor squeezing in his chest as Billy overlaps the pillows and curls up small towards the center of the bed. He usually settles on the outskirts of the mattress. Always ready to spring when this is all too much or he decides it’s time to sneak back out the window.

Steve puts both of their phones on his nightstand and sets an alarm. Gives Billy’s phone the charger; he’ll worry about his own tomorrow morning. When he moves back under the blankets, he nudges Billy so he can set the half-melted peas and ice pack underneath him, pressing on his bruised side. Billy briefly hisses in discomfort but doesn’t move them. He just opens his eyes and stares right through Steve as he bravely settles on his side, the two facing each other. It’s a test and he’s holding his breath.

But Billy doesn’t turn away or put distance between them. He just reaches out and brushes loose strands of hair out of Steve’s face. Smoothes an eyebrow with a calloused thumb that traces down the curve of his jaw and pauses at his mouth. Billy strokes over his lips for a moment before he retracts his hand and tucks his arm under their pillows.

Only when his eyes flutter closed does Steve realize he hasn’t moved. He doesn’t touch Billy back until he’s sure he’s asleep. Only then does he carefully run a hand through damp curls to tuck them behind Billy’s ear, and scoot closer to him so their knees and ankles knock under the sheets.

They won’t talk about this. Tomorrow Billy will pretend he was never here, that he wasn’t glassy eyed and bleeding as he snuck into the house, that they didn’t have sex only because he hurt too much and that he didn’t fall asleep with soggy, cold peas soothing the pain in his ribs.

It hurts every time but Steve’s used to it. Because Billy doesn’t believe in love and feelings and attachment, in needing a partner to fill any void in your life - and Steve doesn’t either but he can’t help the desire to be _loved_ and _cherished_ and to give the same in return, _alright_ \- as living out who he truly is without the shame he’s projected onto himself. Because he has no intention of letting anyone know that they’ve been sneaking around together for months, even if the kids and maybe fucking _Tommy_ have realized that something is going on now.

With Billy, denial and longing is all he’ll ever know.

☆

To Steve’s shock and surprise, there’s a noticeable shift in the air after that night.

Because Billy _stayed_.

When Steve groggily comes downstairs the next morning, Billy is stuffing his papers into his backpack. Asks for something to wear to school - Steve lets him root through his drawers and closet in a tired trance - and treats Steve to iced coffee and cherry danishes for breakfast. There’s no mention of last night, of the kissing and lack of sex or the tender touches in the safety of the shower stall, but Steve almost prefers, now, to not talk about it.

It does something to him.

With graduation looming on the horizon, dangerously close now by a matter of weeks, and no clear cut plans for how he’s going to spend the real beginning of adulthood not set by the limitations of senior year, he puts it upon himself to get a shitty summer job like everyone else.

He hasn’t gotten into any universities so far - he doesn’t know if Billy has either because he refuses to talk about it - and there’s a slim chance he’s got some miraculous acceptance letter lost in the mail, or that any state school would take him with his grades anyway. He thinks maybe he’ll enroll in community college in the fall, just to feel like he’s at least trying and so he doesn’t have to rely on the fallback plan his parents have their fingers crossed for.

His mother keeps giving him this look over Facetime, manicured brows pinched while she smiles weakly from a massage bed, almost like she pities him for even trying. Like if he just puts himself out there, using dating apps or even this really cult-y sounding matchmaking service she keeps bringing up, he won’t even have to _worry_ about community college or working or _anything_ ; he’ll already have someone else to lean on when it comes to a steady job and finances and he won’t have to stress out about any of it.

She’s saying _don’t even worry about trying_ and really, it makes him kind of sick.

On top of it also making him kick his own ass staying up til two a.m. every night to study for finals, it makes him back Billy into more handicap bathroom stalls between classes and text him to come over almost every night so they can fuck on every surface in the house, including the once-forbidden suede sofa in Dad’s study.

He also pesters Billy to join him on midnight drives down rocky backroads and burn cruises that lead to shotgunning in the back parking lot of the Sonic while they get brain freeze over cherry limeade slushies, bellies full of shared boxes of hot mozzarella sticks.

It’s not taking as much pushing and shoving to make Billy stay behind after. Not after that time he came over, all bruised and small, and stayed til morning. Even made that ballsy move to come to school the next day in Steve’s clothes and didn’t bat an eyelash at all the knowing looks and wolf-whistles.

Steve’s been thinking about _that_ far too much.

At first he absolutely didn’t think that night would change anything — fuck all and more. That this newfound possessiveness would only shove Billy away. Now he lingers, almost afraid to go, even when it comes to rushed handies down the front of their pants in the sticky arcade bathroom while the kids are preoccupied with their picks of Dig Dug and Pac Man and Dance Dance Revolution.

When they’re out at the quarry, escaping the cold museum feel of Steve’s empty house, they smoke on the cliff’s edge and lean on each other’s shoulders, critiquing the other’s Instagram feed or snorting at stupid TikToks after they’ve gone down on each other in the grass, patchy green stains on their knees and elbows. Sometimes they just make out fully clothed in the backseats of their cars for an hour, The Weeknd and Frank Ocean playing softly over the speakers, until Billy’s dad leaves him threatening voicemails telling him he _better_ be home for dinner.

But when they are at Steve’s, his parents supposedly absent until the weekend _after_ graduation, they order in from Tommy’s aunt’s taqueria - Steve openly bemoans the absence of Tommy’s Tia Mariana’s ceviche on the menu and Billy bitches at him to just bother Tommy for some while stealing bits of carnitas off of Steve’s platter - and binge watch Schitt’s Creek, work on some homework with their legs thrown over each other on the patio furniture, later fall asleep on the sofa with their limbs all pretzel-knotted, more exhausted from finals prep and than the lack of sex.

Gradually, they _have_ been having less sex. Having Billy around in a more casual sense hasn’t like, raised their fucking quota like it did the first week or so after this apparent shift. Steve blames it all on studying and the impending pressure of finals and graduation. It would only make sense.

And at school, somewhere Steve never saw a change happening in their showy, public displays of faux personal vendettas, Billy’s ribbing has turned _playful_. When he sees Nancy and Jonathan around Steve, he doesn’t hurl insults or poisonous looks from afar anymore; instead his teasing is all up close and personal, and when they quietly inquire to Steve what the _hell_ has changed, Billy just smirks at him all knowing, and winks.

(But seriously, of the two people that have known him most intimately, have they _not_ smelled his cologne on Steve’s clothes, in his hair? And is everyone else so blinded by the obvious they can’t see it?)

This shift has been running for weeks now and Steve’s grown strangely used to it. Keeps expecting things he shouldn’t and foolishly tricking himself into thinking he won’t get hurt when Billy inevitably grows out of him and ends this. Ignores the blatant fact that they haven’t talked any of this out - _so what are we?_ Steve wants to ask, no matter how badly it makes him cringe just to think about it - that he doesn’t have a million and one things to say.

He just selfishly takes what Billy gives him, for as long as he’ll give it to him. Saving him from a thousand conversations he’s stopped and started in his own head.

So when Billy encourages him to say fuck what his parents want and just get a job - in his own way of course: hanging off of Steve’s bed with his vape in his mouth and Steve’s mostly blank resume in hand, wearing only those stupid cherry printed panties Steve can no longer use in his seduction schemes - he persists with the career endeavor he nearly gave up on a few weeks back.

He _almost_ gets stuck slinging scoops at the Scoops Ahoy in Starcourt Mall, some nautical themed disaster of an ice cream parlor that hasn’t aged since the eighties. After the first two unbearable shifts in a scratchy sailor suit straight out of some kiddie diddler fantasy - Billy actually stops by the first day and laughs so fucking hard when he sees it he _nearly_ pisses himself - on top as his scandalized parents catching word of his newfound employer, he’s encouraged that if he’s going to insist on working, maybe he should pick somewhere with a _little_ more dignity.

“I know it’s _just_ a summer job, pumpkin but,” Mom says over the phone one night, all while Steve’s got Billy seated in his lap, both of them naked in Dad’s Italian leather armchair as they share a joint and look over flashcards together, “your father and I think you should keep looking around for something better?”

At least by his parents’ aged and low standards, he’s above a stupid white Ahoy! hat and shoddy sailor slang.

So he finds someplace else. When he quits he steals Robin, some band geek junior with a sarcastic streak scathing enough to physically burn. She was the only one he actually worked with both shifts and after having had been at the job for three months herself looking for an excuse to escape ice cream hell, went with him easy.

They spend a day driving around dropping off resumes in somewhat awkward silence filled only by off-handed remarks and a lot of teasing and eye rolls, until they end up at Family Video. There’s a faded ‘Help Wanted’ sign on the door that’s been there for a few weeks already.

Steve’s been a thousand times since childhood. He could navigate the very specific genre placement with his eyes closed.When he used to ask Mom to take him, she’d always say that it’s smelled like stale buttered popcorn and old carpet since _she_ was a kid.

It’s right next to the The Palace arcade, too, where he already finds himself far too often because it’s the kids’ _only_ designated hangout spot that isn’t someone’s basement or the mall.

And it’s only still open because the mayor refuses to put DVD vending machines outside of the convenience stores and supermarkets. Says they’ll take from local businesses. Like Family Video isn’t a franchise, too.

At least people still come by regularly enough to keep it semi-active and open, so Steve and Robin won’t be getting kicked out on their asses in two weeks and paid in vintage movie posters and Red Vines. They really only get the jobs, fresh out of their scratchy, nautical get-ups, because Keith, who also manages the arcade, can’t run two places at once when summer break officially starts.

No one else had applied yet, either, but that’s _besides_ the fact.

Because now Steve’s got a _job_. A shitty, minimum wage job in a mostly dead industry, but a _job_ nonetheless.

After two eight hour long training shifts that weekend filled with Keith meticulously explaining every operation and organization method, critiquing their taste in movies and actors and being generally overbearing and _holier than thou_ in his cinematic tastes, the mutual annoyance bonds Steve and Robin quicker than their job hunting field trip had.

It becomes very clear in that short time frame that Robin _might_ not have typical tastes, because pep squad captain Heather Holloway, the same Heather from the pool, comes in both days they’re working and Robin proceeds to drop whatever she’s carrying or stammers her way through small talk when Heather gets to the counter to pay.

She fairs no better when Tammy Thompson stops in, either. She actually hides in the back when she picks up the unmistakable strawberry cotton candy, bubblegum scent that Tammy radiates in waves, and emerges only when she sees Keith trying to talk to her.

So after their second day-long shift, they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder in the backseat of Steve’s Beamer sharing a bag of gummy bears - Steve’s also trying to ignore the dirty texts and pictures Billy’s been sending him, bored while manning the front desk at the pool, and fears that Robin might have gotten that first cheek-burning message of **can’t stop thinking about getting over there and sucking you off in the doorway** \- she tells Steve point blank, that she’s got absolutely _no_ interest in him or his “candy shop” smell.

In return, Robin _does_ have a nice smell, fresh and biting like eucalyptus and oak moss, and she _is_ quite pretty, but he doesn’t take the comment to heart.

And when she mentions even though she’s surprised by how much she does like him now, as a person, how _grotesque_ it was watching him come into Mrs. Click’s class late every day dropping bagel all over the floor, and how it used to make her so _angry_ that he could get away with everything and that no matter how many people he was flirting with and talking to, and how much fucking _bagel_ he managed to drop on himself, Tammy Thompson would still only look at _him_ —

She watches him with these big, nervous eyes, when he doesn’t get what she means at first - “But Tammy Thompson is an alpha?” - but when she says his name in the smallest, most scared voice, it all clicks - he stupidly says “ _oh_ ,” just as softly, but with so much knowing - and then hints, maybe to make her feel safer or better or something, he not as subtly as he intends, hints that he’s _not_ as rigidly aligned as he seems.

When she nods and says, “I mean, you kind of had a reputation for not being picky, so that doesn’t surprise me,” he playfully slugs her in the shoulder and they both break down into a cackling fit.

It’s so nice. Everything is so fucking _nice_.

Because now he’s got this new friend that he already really likes to be around, and he’s got a job and and he _might_ not be failing his classes anymore and when he blocks out his intrusive thoughts, he can pretend he has this real _thing_ with Billy, and everything is so _good_.

And after seeing the travesty of the bike she usually takes everywhere, he volunteers to give her rides to school if she needs it, starting the following Monday. Gets a double take from Nancy and Jonathan in the hallway when they enter together.

Billy sees them for a split second and says nothing.

He had come over the previous evening, well — _invited_ himself over under the guise of swimming like he doesn’t work at a pool already, to supposedly _unwind_ from all the cram studying, and after doing a few laps and chugging mango White Claws in rapid succession, Billy was on top of him, had them both naked under the pink hue of the setting sun.

They rubbed off on each other on a pool lounger, using the shaky arms of the lounger to steady them as they rut together, searching for that magic angle. Billy was leaning over him, breathing into his mouth and tickling him with wet, sun bleached curls, when they finally shuddered apart in quick succession and nearly fell off the chair.

Together they remained, sticking to each other and the twine seating, naked and twisted up watching videos on Steve’s phone, until the sun set and the temperature no longer allowed for being comfortably nude. Inside, they found they both had abstract patterns from the deck furniture imprinted into their asscheeks and knees and shoulders.

Unshowered, only wearing old Hawkins High t-shirts printed with cringey slogans from past school events, they pulled out the ice machine and made shitty margaritas with a bottle of premix and too much tequila and ate them with spoons on the countertop. Playfully argued about which tracks off the last Post Malone album were _actually_ good and just catchy. Agreed to only attend the grad night quarry bonfire if the other was going.

Billy didn’t leave until almost five in the morning.

He kissed Steve’s forehead in a temporary adieu after they’d fallen asleep in Steve’s bed, both freshly showered and a little tipsy. Probably thought Steve was still conked and wouldn’t notice, but he did, and then he slid down the railing outside his window with that stupid fanny pack strapped over his chest, wearing Steve’s TMNT boxer briefs under his basketball shorts.

When Robin saw the watercolor bite mark, angry and red, half-hidden by his shirt collar that morning, she _maybe_ caught a whiff of something unmistakably _Billy_ still clinging to him too, but said nothing. Just eyed the blatant hickey and nodded once, pursed her lips and commandeered the aux-cord.

It’s all still very good.

After last night, _too_ good.

Time is a slow crawl and lunchtime approaches slowly, the clock arms seemingly dragging due to quiet classes full of last minute prep and one early final. But when the bell does ring, head empty of his usual insecurities and anxieties, Steve is foolishly unaware that the soft, early morning façade of Billy he’s been daydreaming about all day is about to be wiped clean off the Earth.

Steve’s in the courtyard, perched at a table basking in the sun with Robin, Nancy and Jonathan - who at first thought _they_ were now a thing, but very quickly learned otherwise with the very disgruntled reply they got from both him and Robin - when Billy sidles up, seemingly ready to put on his daily show for everyone like he’s never whimpered and whined on Steve’s fingers, or that he doesn’t nuzzle into Steve’s neck after he’s come and dazedly tell him how good he smells.

Or has even ‘accidentally’ fallen asleep in Steve’s bed after making them frozen ravioli for dinner and kissing him goodbye the next morning while the sky is still lavender, just breaking orange with sunrise.

Steve’s ready to play along, almost excited, and could do it blindfolded at this point, when Billy smacks him sideways with something he’d _never_ thought he’d hear straight from his mouth, and _never_ with as much anger.

Because Billy leans over his shoulder, his denim jacket smelling faintly like the Marlboros he’s been stress-smoking and Steve’s lavender fabric softener, and says, right in his ear, “Aw, you looking to get knocked up, Harrington?”

Robin obviously hears that too as she chokes on her bottle of Yerba Mate before Steve can even comprehend what he’s just said. Nancy suddenly grabs at Jonathan’s knee under the table too, while Jonathan scowls, growing tense, solid next to her. They might’ve broken things off with Steve months ago - a tearful, drunken break-up in Tina’s guest bathroom last Halloween - but Jonathan’s protective streak runs strong, ever hot in his blood.

“Excuse me?” Steve scoffs.

“I mean, I know the dating pool’s kinda slim right now with all the dick you’ve already sat on, but _c’mon_ — some dyke band geek? I didn’t think you were _that_ desperate for it.”

It’s impossible that Billy knows about the whole gay situation with Robin, but that one word still claws up Steve’s stomach. Makes it twist guiltily like a drunkenly spilled secret, when he hasn’t as much as mentioned that they’re coworkers and that he likes hanging out with her. He didn’t even think Billy was paying full attention when he brought it up last night, selective post-orgasm hearing and all.

Robin’s freckled cheeks burn crimson as she focuses on the grimy, doodled toes of her Converse. She’s white knuckle gripping her drink. The plastic will cave under her fingers and the sugary tea will spill over and she won’t even _care_. So far she hasn’t given the air of someone capable of physical violence, her handpicked words acidic enough on their own, but she just might change that if Billy continues at the rate he’s going.

“Billy,” Steve hisses, dangerously low, “what is _with_ you? Fucking knock it off, _now_.”

But he keeps on going, circles them all predatory, lion-like, teeth bared and ready to strike. “No, no, I just wanna know if there’s something here I’m missing,” he explains, “like is her knot _real_ fat? Does she pound you just _so_ fucking good? Desperate measures out here, I get that, but, _wow_ , never thought I’d see _this_.”

It’s suddenly hits Steve, in a very open-palmed, slapped sideways and stupid, way, that Billy _might_ have misread this whole thing this morning, and jealousy’s been eating him up all day and has him _severely_ clouded. He’s nearly seething with _something_ that’s visibly rolling off him, heat waves curling off hot asphalt. His cologne has soured as much as his expression.

This isn’t the place to rationalize this the way Steve needs to. It’s not like he can just grip Billy’s hand and explain how he’s wrong, or take Billy’s face in his hands anyway and tell him right here right now, all sugar sweet and heart-twistingly honest, _you know I only want you, right?_ and Billy will soften and go all doe-eyed and it’ll be happily ever fucking after.

Because that still _doesn’t_ make it fucking okay to rib at Robin like that, to drag her into this fit of misread jealousy and be all presumptuous and assume shit, or even to call Steve a slut like Billy’s _suddenly_ got a problem with it; like he _hasn’t_ been one himself. It’s hypocritical at bare fucking minimum.

But Steve doesn’t know what to say. He shouldn’t be surprised really, that it’s come to this. He’s only got himself to blame for building up this facade in his head.

“It’s not like that, Jesus fucking Christ, we’re just friends,” Steve grits as he rises, uses that mere inch between them as an advantage as he stands toe to toe with Billy, “and I _thought_ I said to knock it off; are you both deaf _and_ an asshole now?”

Billy sneers in his face. “Ooh that _stings_ , sweetheart, but you’d better watch your tone, unless you want your alpha to have to come out here and take care of this for you,” and Billy drops his voice, raspy and rough and only loud enough for Steve’s ears, “but who knows, you might get real wet watching that, you fuckin’ _slut_ -”

“I _said_ stop it -”

“Man, I should’ve known you were just some lonely, _easy_ bitch down to clown and play with the queer shit until something better came along, just like Mommy and Daddy want -”

“ _Billy_ -”

“I must be fucking stupid or something, thinking King Steve here could be anything more than some little trophy wife, playing with people to get off until the right alpha cock came along -”

“Fuck. You.”

Steve can’t take it. He _won’t_ hear it. Not after the hard one-eighty they’ve taken, now an apparent mirage of Billy’s own making for god knows fucking what.

Like how fucking _stupid_ can he be?

He shoves past Billy with as much force he can muster and just _goes_.

Leaves Robin sitting there dumbstruck and singled out, guilty by association, and Nancy and Jonathan with heaps of questions and their unexpecting audience just trying to enjoy lunch murmuring amongst themselves.

Leaves Billy, with his glassy eyes and clenched fists and teeth drawing blood from his bottom lip, with his homegrown insinuations and judgments and heartache, in the dust.

☆

After getting his backpack delivered to him fifth period by a concerned Nancy and Jonthan as well as hastily text-apologizing to Robin for ghosting - luckily she’s understanding - Steve resigns himself to his bedroom and feels a hell of a lot like crying. He didn’t break down at school, couldn’t bear getting caught crying after some overly aggressive but not unusual harassment from Billy Hargrove, by Billy or anyone else.

He cried over Nancy and Jonathan and that was _valid_ because they were all a _thing_. But with Billy, despite the past few misleading weeks, it was clear this was _never_ going to be a thing. Billy would have _never_ let it come to that. Maybe he should readopt that self-serving mindset he shed after learning what a real relationship could be like, for his own protection.

Romanticism is clearly hazardous to his health.

He’s just doesn’t get what poor _Robin_ had to do with that, other than Billy getting the wrong idea for no fucking reason - which has _definitely_ happened before, if the knick of a scar still hiding in his hairline from that broken plate back in November is anything to go by - other than acting before thinking, or stewing in his own thoughts of the worst possible scenario instead of applying rational thought.

Steve buries himself under the blankets with a loud groan. He’s sweating under the covers within seconds but stays hidden. His chest aches with the weight of a thousand bricks and his head is pounding like a nasty hangover and he doesn’t know _what_ to do.

All he _does_ know is that in this moment, he hates that his pillows smell coconut-y, like Billy’s curling cream. And that Billy’s roach from last night is still quashed out on the nightstand, on the ceramic ashtray Tommy got him on vacation in La Paz years back. Right now he also hates that Billy might be lowering his dosage on his blockers because the sheets smell like more than just Steve and his lotion and hair products — they’re stained with spice and molasses and crisp citrus too and that’s not _fair_.

Steve’s just so fucking angry that Billy thinks that he was really just hooking up with him because he’s waiting for something better to come along; that he’s not actually _any_ degree of queer, he’s just some wet little bitch looking for a fix until he can _finally_ get knotted and knocked up and live out his parents’ wet day dream of being a class piece of breeding stock.

Billy should know him better than that by now. He should know that he doesn’t want what his parents want for him. That he wants genuine connections and equal footing instead of an imbalanced, glorified kind of ownership.

 _Should_ know.

Steve angrily swipes at his eyes before the tears can slip down his cheeks. He feels so frustrated and stupid, falling for placating kindness all over again. For so stupidly believing in those brief moments of genuity sprinkled over months, along with the fairy tale world Billy spent the last few weeks crafting.

But at the same, despite the dread in his stomach and the feeling of his ribs crumbling apart in his chest, there’s the lasting press of the kiss on his forehead from this morning and bits of Billy all over his room in the forms of borrowed clothes and forgotten lighters and fresh sheets and there are lasting impressions of him existing throughout the house like ghosts —

So the only thing left to do, is _nothing_. Because they’ve got finals the rest of this week. Because he works Friday night and all of Saturday. Because the yearbook assembly is next Monday and Senior Brunch is Tuesday and dress rehearsal for graduation is Wednesday.

They’re all valid excuses to do nothing.

Which, _at_ _first_ , is exactly what he does.

☆

Steve manages to survive finals. With all the makeup work and extra credit he’s been doing and the feedback received thus far, he’s seemingly taken a step in the right direction. But he’s also anxious as all hell and in turn has barely slept. Like he passes out on the sofa before he can go over to hang out with the kids for Wednesday night D&D at the Wheelers’. The frantic texts he wakes up to after midnight have him in panic mode all over again.

Then Robin and Dustin invite themselves over Thursday night - “Did you know you got a little guard dog here, dingus? This little dweeb _attacked_ me in the parking lot and _demanded_ -” “I did not _attack_ you; I just care very much about Steve’s well being and he’s been blowing me off and the last person I saw him with was _you_ so forgive me for trying to use context clues to figure out how to help my _best_ friend!” - without knowing much about the situation at hand, but to be supportive nonetheless.

Robin also has some rentals from work and Dustin’s brought a bag full of homemade brownies from his mother. When Steve sees both he can’t help sniffling and finds himself dragged into a very tight hug from Dustin accompanied by a dramatic sigh from Robin as she does the same, albeit in a looser grip, and sympathetically rubs his back a few times.

They watch _Pretty in Pink_ and _What If_ \- Dustin spends the first half of both claiming he’s not paying attention when Steve knows he’s watching with keen interest over the top of his phone - because they both fall into the category of being the sweet, heartwarming kind of distraction he needs.

When he tries to make an attempt to pull his notes out, Robin tells him not to worry about anymore studying - he has one more final tomorrow and he’s _pretty_ sure Mr. Nazarian is going to make half the test joke questions - as she stuffs half a brownie in his mouth.

It’s all very welcome amidst the chaos. Neither forces him to fess up about anything, even when he offers the slightest hint of _what’s wrong_. Nancy would needle at him until he spilled over while Jonathan would support her with long, expectant looks. Tommy would only ask if he had to. Billy won’t do anything but it always seems like he just _knows_.

They’re as weird a duo as Steve and Dustin are on their own but it’s nice to know he can at least bring Robin around _one_ of the nerds and there’ll be equal amounts of getting along and entertainment value. It’s a nice change of pace; of the times Billy’s been with him when he’s been on babysitting duty, nearly everyone but Will and El have very vocal issues with him, including his _own_ stepsister.

And speaking of Billy, he’s been texting Steve on and off the whole week.

**hey can we talk**

**look i’m sorry alright?**

**i know you don’t wanna talk to me rn but i need to say smth**

**harrington seriously?**

**i’m sorry i’m such a fucking dick**

**can you pick up the phone**

**steve please i just wanna talk**

Steve hasn’t replied. Leaves Billy on read like all those times he didn’t text back or showed up late or didn’t show up at _all_ and thought some apology head was enough to win him back over. (It often was.)

Well. He leaves Billy on read _at first_.

It really only took a day and a half before Steve caved. _Completely_ fucking crumbled.

Then he read over everything he’d received a thousand times until he got it all committed to memory. Could probably recite it, beat poetry. It might be occupying too much head space he needs for some important historical dates.

All they do is make him _ache_. Because Billy _never_ apologizes, at least not in the way that would mean anything in the long run. Or at least, out loud in a way he’s really meant it, or when he’s needed to say it.

But this is also coming from the same person that Steve’s caught with tears clumping his lashes and his nose sniffly and snotty, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hands like that’ll clear the evidence, and not even acknowledging there’s anything wrong.

It should mean as much to him as it actually signifies but Steve would rather be pathetic and mope over all the missed calls and voicemails than try and proactively fix the issue at hand. He’s got a keen habit of fucking things up by opening his mouth.

So he keeps on doing what he’s been doing — burying his face into the pillow Billy favored and keeping his window unlocked and partially open so he can listen for the familiar purr of the Camaro. Wearing that ratty old Metallica tee Billy left over, with the flecks of blood on the worn collar and frayed, fringed fabric where he cut into the sleeves, around the house. Fucking with the flint on Billy’s orange BIC lighter - the one with the faded flames drawn in Sharpie encompassing the bottom - with his thumb until it starts to callous the tip of his finger.

He’s even been desperate enough to touch himself one night. Gets home from work and nearly sheds his itchy work vest and clothes in the doorway. Tries to memorize the way Billy’s fingers rub him just right and where exactly they curl up inside of him that make him see swirls of color behind his eyes, but he can’t _quite_ do it.

His orgasm is a fleeting thing as he finds himself hunched over in bed straddling a pillow, no more satisfying than when he was on his back with a hand between his legs, or twisted sideways, reaching into himself from behind.

After enough fruitless bouncing on a rippled dildo while he tirelessly plays with his cock, he shudders to completion. But it’s nothing close to what Billy gives him. The relief is more short lived than the cramp in his wrist.

Jesus, who is he kidding with all the _woe is me_ bullshit.

As much as he probably shouldn’t, he _wants_ Billy here.

He wants them to have a conversation instead of just talking at each other and for things to play out in his favor because realistically there’s no way his head’s up his own ass far enough to have taken everything that’s happened in the absolute wrong direction. He wants Billy in his kitchen, in his bed, sprawled out tan and toned on the back patio, dozing in the sun.

But he’s just not ready to fuck everything up by actually setting things in motion. Not even when fucking Max texts him outside of the group chat while he’s at work and asks if something happened.

 _Uh how would I know?_ he replies, not at _all_ guilty.

**Steve you can’t lie to me I know you guys have been hanging out for months and he’s been bearable for the first time in my LIFE and now he’s all cranky and acting like a dick again and I hate it! 😡🔥**

**Fix this!!**

He keeps holding his ground even if it makes him a coward.

Until Tommy, who he _knows_ must have an inkling of an idea as to what’s going on, because he’s _always_ had a weird sixth sense for (other) people Steve’s slept with, texts him bitching about how un-fun Billy’s been and trying to get answers out of him - **Dude what happened? And dont fuck w me bc i know smths been going on and u cant tell me its nothing** and **Jsyk if he blows off the quarry bonfire after grad bc hes still acting like a lil bitch im gonna kick both ur asses** \- Steve knows it’s no use hiding anymore.

This week has been an eternity even with the testing and friendly distractions. He hasn’t been able to ignore the noticeable void that is Billy missing from his life, or how lonely and wrong it’s made him feel in spite of all the mixed feelings and self doubt. There’s no more hiding his head in the sand.

He _needs_ to talk to Billy.

☆

Graduation is four days away and every day until then is filled with something, meaning it’s either do this now, or endure every day until the ceremony - he’s never been more concerned about a call from his counselor before this but _holy shit_ he fucking did it - in this weird state of anticipation and high tension.

Steve’s been devising a plan all day - meaning since he got home because seniors had a half day and got to leave after the deathly boring yearbook assembly - and invites Robin over for moral support. There is also no plan to be had other than: _don’t sound like an idiot_ and _don’t choke_.

“Remind me,” she says, hanging upside down off the sofa looking at her phone, a bowl of popcorn balanced on her stomach, “what _exactly_ am I doing here?”

Steve’s laying on his back on the rug, staring straight up at the vaulted ceiling. He sent Billy a text five minutes ago and he just felt his phone buzz with what he assumes is a reply. Grimacing, he checks his notifications, finds he was right. He might go into cardiac arrest when he sees a simple **omw** without a time frame or an ounce of detail.

“ _Steve_.”

Something hits his cheek then - a kernel of popcorn. He pops the piece into his mouth without a second thought. He wishes now they’d shredded some cheese into the bowl.

“ _Sorry_ ,” he groans. “I’m just freaking out and I don’t want to be by myself right now because if I’m by myself, I’ll do something stupid.”

Robin lifts herself back up into a proper seated position, squawking when she almost spills the popcorn, and watches him carefully from over the edge of the coffee table; her hair is sticking up in some places and he can see her black swim top peeking out from the wide neck of her t-shirt.

“Why would you do something stupid?”

He has to save his brain cells for when Billy gets here and his internal wiring inevitably shorts out, but she deserves a semblance of an explanation. Of what little he can offer right now. By just having her here with Billy on his way over, from the reaction they got last time over literally _nothing_ , he’s painted a target on her back.

“Let’s just say that I’m _this_ close to a panic attack right now because I, well, me _and_ another person both fucked something up and I just made it worse because I’ve been _ignoring_ this person for like a week?”

After a beat, Robin blinks a few times in rapid succession. “Oh my god.” She tongues at the edge of her mouth and laughs once, dryly. “I fucking _knew_ it.”

Steve sits up on his elbows and scowls at her from over the coffee table. “What? Knew what?”

“It’s Hargrove, isn’t it? You and Hargrove have been fucking, wait, no- you _like_ him! Oh my god I _knew_ it! Sure, at first I thought people were just being fucking _weird_ , y’know — _if you can’t stop bearing your teeth at someone it means you want them,_ that old bullshit, after you guys got into that fight but the other day when he got all in your face and it _really_ got to you?” Robin shakes her head in disbelief, “I _knew_ there was something going on between you two, like how _obvious_ can -”

Steve coughs on his spit and Robin immediately stops talking. “People are saying _what_?” he rasps.

“I mean I don’t think _everyone_ believes it, especially with how many people Hargrove was juggling when he moved here but,” Robin muses, resting her chin on one ring-clad hand before looking at him pointedly, “he hasn’t been seeing _anyone_ in months, at least, no one that he’s been showing off, or talking about, and everytime I’ve seen you you’ve got like, hickies all over and then you started getting all mopey after Hargrove’s big blow up last week…”

Steve wants to melt into the floor. Get absorbed into the fancy speckled carpet like spilled wine and stain it forever in a stark reminder — here lies Steve Harrington, death by mortification and embarrassment. Here he was so foolishly thinking they were being so _careful_ , so _quiet_ , and then _this_ gut-punch of reality.

It would’ve been less of a shock to confirm that like, just her or Tommy or the kids had pieced everything together, but the fact that _numerous_ people that only know them from afar have probably picked up on it, too? _Christ_.

But — subtlety has also _never_ been Billy’s forte. Maybe his either. And like, as long as no one knows about _Billy_ , then, really, what’s another ‘beta’ and omega with complexes, fucking out their issues, right? _Right_?

Steve’s trying to wrap his head around it, trying to figure out _exactly_ who amongst the student body besides Robin - most likely Tommy, probably Carol and Tina and Vicky because they got off on gossip like nothing else, just to _start_ \- might know the sordid truth about his and Billy’s long running secret arrangement, when he hears a loud, solid knock at the door.

Fuck melodrama — it really is _only_ fair that his world completely starts to collapse around him at once, before he can figure out how to just keep _himself_ in one piece.

“ _Shit_ ,” Steve hisses to the ceiling.

Robin shoots a pointed look back and forth, between him and the front door. Starts to gesture wildly with her hands when Steve only stares at said door, at the supposed figure waiting on the doorstep.

 _Fucking open the door, you idiot,_ she mouths. Steve pinches his eyes shut, purses his lips, and shakes his head no.

Really, if he doesn’t reply, Billy _will_ leave.

Billy will _leave_ and he’ll probably never come back or talk to him again, but at least Steve will have some semblance of peace in his life never having had to look Billy Hargrove in the eye and spill his complicated feelings out in an endless stream of word vomit that he’s _bound_ to reject, even it means he’ll probably feel restless and resentful of himself for the rest of his _life_ for being such a fucking coward, _again_ , and never knowing what would have happened to, what his mushy, soft, three-times-too-large heart might call, _the one that got away_ —

“Hey Hargrove, don’t mind me.”

But now he doesn’t have time to contemplate that, add more to his list of _woe is me_ , because Robin, the _traitor_ , has opened the door and Billy’s standing right _there_.

He’s standing there so tragically, so _unfairly_ attractive — with his hair lightened by the growing sunlight and falling over his shoulders in springy coils, freckles dusted across his nose and shoulders, a fresh sunburn reddening his cheeks, muscles still cut and bulging under fitted, cuffed jeans and an open button-down shirt, printed _so_ obnoxiously with brightly colored flowers.

His usual spike earring has been replaced with a little silver hoop. His necklace sits in the dip between his pecs. When the light hits it right, it reminds Steve of how it would sway in his face whenever he had Billy squirming in his lap.

(It’s not like Steve hasn’t known but he _might_ still be a little in love. This has been a long, emotionally complicated week.)

Steve doesn’t know what to say. Apparently Billy doesn’t either as he just lurks in the doorway, letting the humid early summer air blow warmly into the house. He isn’t looking at Steve though; his focus is solely on Robin still holding the door open.

Awkwardly, Robin clears her throat, murmurs, “I’ll let you two be,” as she moves to grab Steve’s hand, forcibly pulling him to the door, and gracelessly shoving him outside onto the porch. Before Steve can even protest, telling _her_ to wait outside, the lock clicks and, well.

Steve tries to jiggle the handle a few times, even threatens Robin through the door that she’s _dead_ if she doesn’t let them in right fucking now, but there’s no response and it’s very clear they’re stuck out here for the time being.

Well, nothing like providing the neighborhood some quality content. If he finds this on YouTube later he’s going to put his head through a window.

It takes a minute for either of them to even look at each other. Apparently neither wants to open up the conversation. Steve takes it upon himself to do just that.

“ _So_ ,” he starts lamely. He crosses his arms over his chest. Focuses on the scratchy _welcome!_ mat underfoot because Billy’s eyes are boring holes into him. “What did -”

“God, are you _kidding_ me, Harrington?” Billy suddenly intercepts. “You text me to come over to talk and _she’s_ here? Seriously?”

The whiplash is enough to give him the spins. But he should have expected as much. That they’re going to do this shit, all over again, because all they can do is fuck themselves and each other into circles, going nowhere.

“What- you mean _Robin_? Jesus, Billy, she’s my _friend_! If you’d stopped throwing a temper tantrum for _two_ _seconds_ the other day, you might’ve learned that!” He pinches the bridge of his nose and hums a little agitatedly. “I can’t _believe_ we’re still- What is your beef with us hanging out, anyway? You’re acting like a possessive jackass.”

Billy does that heavy breath out of his nose and avoids eye contact. He’s fucking _pissed_. A whole week passes for him to stew in his thoughts like Steve’s been doing and he still doesn’t consider that _this_ isn’t exactly what he suspects it is?

“My fuckin’ _beef_ isn’t with the alpha bitch, Harrington, it’s with fucking _you_ -”

“Don’t call her a _bitch_ , Billy, because she’s _not_ a bitch — she’s my fucking _friend_ and she’s luckily _still_ my friend after the fucking pissing contest bullshit you pulled the other day! And what, _I_ pissed you off? Tell me what _I_ did to make you so fucking mad, instead of acting like a two year old and taking it on people who don’t deserve it!”

Steve’s breathing heavier himself now. He’s getting heated and it being so fucking humid outside isn’t helping. The air is hot and thick, soupy, absent of any breeze to break it up. He wishes they could at least argue _out_ of the heat. Next time Robin comes over he’s locking her outside for ten minutes so she knows just how it feels.

Billy’s jaw is set and solid. He’s clearly clenching his teeth, wiring his jaw shut through willpower alone, but the angry rumble in his chest is just as loud and clear as it would be with his canines exposed.

“ _I’m_ the pissy two year old? I tried to talk to you and you _blew me off_ for a week!” Billy laughs once, sharp and loud. “You _really_ don’t know what you did, huh? You _really_ want me to fucking spell it out for you?”

“Yes! There’s _nothing_ I’d like fucking better than that right now other than _maybe_ doing this shit, inside!”

His voice echoes through the neighborhood. Being bordered by the woods doesn’t help with that. If crotchety old Mrs. Engalls from three houses down catches an earful she’ll call Chief Hopper on them for domestic disturbance.

There’d be nothing like having the parent of a kid you watch come break up a fight between you and the fuck buddy you fell in feelings with.

Billy scoffs, has the gall to laugh _right_ in his face, and goes, “I _like_ you, you asshole, okay? I like you so _fucking_ , goddamn much, I don’t know what to _do_ with myself. It scares the living _shit_ out of me, because I don’t deserve someone like you even _looking_ at me, but because you do, and you’re here, with me, I do the dumbest fucking shit. _You_ make me do the dumbest fucking shit.”

And Steve wasn’t, he wasn’t expecting _that_ in the slightest. Maybe a little more back and forth that went nowhere or some big accusatory statement to start things off; anything but _that_.

“I, wait, I _what?”_

Billy makes this frustrated rumbling noise in the back of his throat and turns away. Drags his hands down his face and lets out another equally aggravated sound. When he turns back around, he’s burning scarlet.

“I fucking, I _let_ myself think you and Buckley were a thing for no goddamn reason just because when I’m around you? I don’t _think_. I get so goddamn scared I’m always pushing you away or fucking things up that I thought I finally did just that and you were done with this, no warning. And _anyone_ is better for you than me, nevermind the _clearly_ queer alpha that probably wouldn’t even _blink_ if some bitch in heat bent over right in front of her and begged for her knot -”

“ _Jesus_ , Billy, _don’t_ say that.”

 _That’s_ a little too vivid for his limited sensibilities. Makes him feel like he did when he caught Max and Lucas kissing after school that one time — _I don’t want to think about that_. Has mostly wiped the latter from his memory save some unfortunate intrusive thoughts.

“- but you know what I mean; I didn’t fucking _think_. And I didn’t see that I hadn’t like, _royally_ screwed the pooch until I realized how much messed up shit I said, and how much I fuckin’,” Billy digs his teeth into his bottom lip, “hurt you.”

Steve feels dizzy; he can’t tell if it’s the heat or being metaphorically knocked on his ass in disbelief. He couldn’t have imagined Billy opening up in this capacity in his wildest dreams, but now the floodgates are open. At least for now.

“So this,” he tries, “whole thing with Robin, there’s no _beef_ , you just,” Billy watches him carefully, his brows creased and his arms crossed tightly, nails digging into his biceps, “ _god_ , Billy, you can’t fucking _do_ that, you just can’t, _assume_ shit and blow up on me, or _anyone_ , like that!”

Billy presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I _know_! Jesus, and I know. I fucked up and I probably ruined everything because I act like an asshole and I don’t think before I say or do anything but, god Steve, I really fuckin’ hope I didn’t fuck this whole thing in the ass.” He tucks his chin and glares down at the step. “Because that would fuckin’ ruin me.”

Suddenly Steve crashlands onto the wooden steps below before he can even register that his knees have locked. His tailbone impacting with the edge of one step is the only thing that signals to him he’s no longer standing. That and the wind being knocked out of him.

“ _Ow_ ,” he groans, sympathetically rubbing at the bone.

Billy’s dropping down into a crouch next to him half a second later. He balances with his hand on Steve’s knee, bare through the distressed hole in his jeans, and sighs. This close, Steve can see a new batch of freckles littered across the bridge of Billy’s nose.

“Fuck, pretty boy, you can’t just do that shit, make me fuckin’ _nervous_ ,” Billy says, exasperated.

Steve nods dazedly. “Yeah, I - shit, that _really_ hurt - didn’t _mean_ to do that, I think I’m just in shock?” Billy immediately throws him a concerned look and he has to quickly clarify. “What I mean is like, I didn’t expect to hear that, _any_ of it, because up until what, a _month_ ago? I thought you didn’t even want me _around_. Like I was just _convenient_ and sometimes I wasn’t even _that_. ”

After a beat of anticipation, Billy groans next to him. Drops his face into his palms before breathing in deeply. Hides between his knees so he doesn’t have to look at Steve when he starts speaking again.

“Harrington,” he starts, almost tiredly, “I’m _so_ fucking soft for you, it’s _embarrassing_. Have been since day one.”

Luckily they’re already sitting otherwise Steve might be pitching himself _off_ the steps; what alternate fucking universe is this?

“But you were _always_ blowing me off and I thought -”

Billy _laughs_. “I’m not good with feelings or dealing with serious shit. I can _barely_ handle my own crap; I’m a fucking _trainwreck_ ; I _know_ you know that — you’ve _seen_ how bad I can get. Can’t fucking tell me I’m not, with all the beta posturing bullshit and my old man and just, _everything_. I can ruin my own life, fucking _whatever_ , I deserve it, but I couldn’t fuck yours up too, so I, y’know,” he makes an abrupt shoving motion with one hand, “I push, so I’m not on my ass first.”

Steve could easily argue right now that he’s not in perfect condition either. Not to try and equivocate personal bullshit but he’s got his own mess of problems to sort through; Billy’s not alone in not having himself put together.

“I’m not,” Steve starts, stops, tries again, “I know it’s too late, like, we’re doing this shit _now_ , what’s done is done, but — why’d you think it was better to push me away for so long? Especially because, this last month? After you stayed over that night?” and he sees the way Billy bites into his lip, maybe insinuating that bit _wasn’t_ intentional, “I was so fucking _happy_ , but I still thought you weren’t like, _really_ into me. You switched up and half the time I thought it meant like _oh, maybe I’m not crazy and he actually doesn’t hate me_ and the other I was like _nah he’s going to break this shit off, he just feels bad about it_.”

This whole situation has been a constant push-pull born out of a mix of their individual stubbornness and fear of being known. They both share the blame here. Billy’s so used to talking never solving anything and Steve’s so used to talking fucking everything up. A constant oil-water scenario.

Billy’s pinky brushes his knuckle where it rests on the step. Where his fingers are squared off, thick, Steve’s are long and thin. His hands are hot while Steve’s always feel cold.

“I’m so used to leaving, even though I never really want to. I wanted to know what would happen if I just stayed, for once,” Billy admits. “And I thought if I could do that then maybe I should try all the other shit I wanted to do but was too much of a pussy _to_ do, before.” Then he shrugs with one shoulder and snorts. “That and there was no way in hell I was going back to my dad’s like that.”

Steve knocks him in the arm with his elbow. Bites back a smile. Sunlight gleams orange through the trees at the edge of the drive and casts patchy purple shadows on the concrete, at the toes of their shoes. Everything feels warm — not just from the sunshine and sticky air.

“Well for the record, I’m glad you didn’t.

Billy’s pinky hooks with his. “I’m still sorry I blew up like that. And that sometimes I act like such a tool and that I made you think I wasn’t into you, or this. I’m a dick anyway, Steve, that’s just kinda who I am. The only thing is,” Billy drops his chin to his knees, then tilts his head and turns towards Steve. “I’m _trying_ to be better now, about it. Everything. But I’m still learning shit and I can’t promise I’m not gonna fuck up ever again.”

Steve nods, understanding. He closes the gap between them so their shoulders brush.

“I’m not asking you to be perfect. Because I’m, I’m _definitely_ not. Like I’d rather think the worst and bottle it up and be miserable about it than talk shit out because I can’t string a sentence together to save my life and think I’ll make things _worse_ that way. I can get really clingy too! Like I can get a _hell_ of a lot worse than what you’ve seen, and I’m not -”

“ _Harrington_ ,” Billy says, trying to suppress a behind his palm.

Steve holds one hand up in mock surrender. “Alright alright, but yeah, you know what I mean. Not perfect.”

“Mm, glad I’m not the only fuck up here, then.”

Steve chuckles, mutters _oh, fuck off_ , and tries to shove Billy off the edge of the step, into the pansies and blossoming shrubbery bordering them on both sides, but Billy holds firm, cackling, and manages to pin Steve’s wrists to his chest. Steve sticks his tongue out and wrestles fruitlessly with Billy’s grip on his wrists, before smiling wickedly.

He leans up and bravely kisses Billy. It’s the first public kiss he’s stolen from him. His lips are buttery with mint chapstick, making Steve’s tingle from the menthol.

When he pulls away, Billy’s staring down at him with wide, wondrous eyes. Almost like he can’t believe that just happened. In this moment, despite everything that’s just happened, he _could_ bolt. He’s been all talk before, in both a positive and negative context.

Actions speak louder than words. Saying _I’m sorry_ and showing _I’m sorry_ are two very different things.

The toothy grin that breaks out across his face and the way he tenderly brushes Steve’s overgrown bangs out of his face and cups his jaw in his palm before he kisses back just as softly — it’s the loudest thing Billy’s ever done.

It doesn’t fix everything, but it’s a start. This isn’t a one step program. If they’re going to make this weird, ambiguous, mutual feelings thing work, they both need to put the effort in. Talking to instead of talking at. No more running from their problems or each other and using silent treatments when there’s a problem or a miscommunication, internal or external.

But when Robin finally unlocks the door to assess the damage and Billy doesn’t suddenly pull back in a panicked rush, or even ease up in the slightest? When he instead tongues his way into Steve’s mouth and holds onto him tighter, not letting him escape despite Steve’s cheeks burning with guilt at being caught, wriggling and giggling in his grasp while Robin makes exaggerated choking noises and telling them to just _get a room already_?

For now, that’s all he needs.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's graduation day and the boys come up with their own way to celebrate the occasion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this turned less into an epilogue and more into a part two? and it's also super long so uhhhh it took me a lot longer than intended to finish? quarantine's been a real bitch to all my pre-existing focus problems so i haven't been able to make the most out of not working my day job right now.
> 
> but anyway, i hope you enjoy, and that this wraps up things nicely! big thanks again to lostnoise for the prompt and patience!
> 
> (also as always, as beta'd to the best of my ability but don't be surprised if things get fixed as time passes because i never catch all my mistakes the first three times haha)

Friday comes and time moves like molasses.

Graduation is just as long and boring as anticipated, even with Steve stuck seated between Billy _and_ Tommy - “Yo, Hogarth, trade with me, I’ll _kill_ myself if I have to sit next to Gunderson for three hours again, I’m _not_ fuckin’ kidding.”- with his hand on Billy’s thigh under their ugly dark green robes the whole time. Every so often Tommy shoots both of them side eye and mouths shit at them.

Steve stops paying attention when he recognizes something about a _threesome_ and crosses his fingers that Billy didn’t see that. It’d be a shame to see him lose his diploma over wringing Tommy’s neck.

They can’t even really talk out on the football field, which makes everything even worse. The whole senior class is seated in creaky folding chairs awaiting the actual graduation part of the ceremony. It’s close to two hours of speeches from the academic elite and teachers Steve was never smart enough to have and other staff members taking ownership for doing jack all.

And anytime there’s too much uninvited giggling or whispering, the pinch-faced vice principal throws them pissy bug-eyed looks from her spot on the portable stage. She snaps at people with their phones out, too, but it’s not like she can actually confiscate anything.

Steve has to fan himself with his cap it’s so fucking hot out, too. His hair is already drooping in his eyes and the thin white button down he’s sporting underneath is sticking to his back uncomfortably.

It’s barely the first week of June and even with the sun tucked behind the bleachers as six-thirty rolls around, it’s swampy and humid. Even if they didn’t have their robes on. The wind only picks up every so often and when it does, it only circulates more warm air.

Once their row is motioned to the stand, Billy’s the first of the three of them to go up.

He’s greeted by a sizeable amount of hooting and hollering by the student body, Steve and Tommy probably the loudest of them, as well as what Steve can only assume is Max and the kids up in the bleachers - something he and Max _may_ have asked them to do, because even though Max would rather pull her teeth out one by one with pliers than like, be sisterly to Billy, she doesn’t want to give Neil the satisfaction of no one cheering for him - and the smile Billy suppresses as he takes his diploma has Steve weakly trying to hide his own.

It’s his turn after Billy’s. He’s shaking he’s so nervous as he waits at the edge of the stage. But when they call his name and he jogs up the steps, Billy winks at him on his way back to his seat. Steve almost trips over his feet.

From the platform, shaking the principal’s hand, he can see Robin spring up from the band’s seating area not far off to get out one loud _woo!_ that might rival Dustin’s eccentric, unintelligible cheering from the stands.

Coming off of the stage, he waves as he catches the rest of kids up on the metal benches whooping next to Nancy and Jonathan, who seem to be politely clapping - what they’re all _supposed_ to be doing - and Joyce Byers tugging a reluctant Chief Hopper up onto his feet to cheer as well, and it fills him with such pride he can’t quash down his grin.

He knows to some people this is like, a bare minimum reason to celebrate, but this is fucking _everything_ to him.

When they throw their caps up in the air, Tommy nearly knocks him in the face as he leaps up onto his seat and crows out. Under all the cheering and shouting, under the fall of rainbow confetti and a crappy radio single blasting over everyone, Steve squeezes Billy’s hand.

In the euphoric rush to get to the parking lot so they can finally _change_ , Steve finds himself pulled into a heft handful of photo-ops. First there’s Robin, then Tommy, who pulls him into a tight shoulder hug while his mother simultaneously snaps photos of them while she yells at surrounding relatives in Spanglish, then he’s stiffly pinned between a beaming Nancy and Jonathan offering a practiced smile for Joyce and Karen Wheeler - who Billy makes eye contact with and _bolts_ for some reason, returning minutes later - and is then cycling between ridiculous selfies with the kids as well as more posed group shots for any of their parents in attendance.

There’s also an awkward yet comforting handshake from Hopper as well as an unbelievably strong but equally friendly shoulder pat from Mr. Sinclair that almost bowls him over - Lucas’ little sister Erica calls him a _beanpole_ while he coughs - before he finds himself forced into a photo with Billy, who’s magically reappeared, by Joyce.

“Steve, honey, give me your phone, let me grab a few of you two,” she says, smiling at them knowingly but offering nothing verbal, even with Jonathan’s _Mom, what the hell?_ to her right.

When they stand side to side, Billy’s board stiff and tentatively touching him, hands in front holding his diploma. Quickly Steve surmises it’s because everyone around them is staring so pointedly, and really it’s only been a few days of this brand new thing and this all has to be a _lot_ for him, then he realizes Billy’s dad and stepmom are _also_ watching a few yards off. Neil’s arms are crossed tightly, expression cynical at best, while Susan watches Neil, twisting her hands.

And like, fuck that. They - well, _Neil_ \- doesn’t get to take this from him.

Because he’s assured Billy in the past that he wouldn’t lay hands on Neil without strict permission - although if the bastard catches him on a bad day, no fucking promises - he’s not going to do anything _to_ him.

But he won’t let Neil take a single second from Billy today.

So he yanks Billy in, holds him by his waist, and offers a genuinely proud smile when Billy’s hand shakily, albeit surely, settles on the sweaty center of his back. He turns and Billy’s got a tight lipped smile, but a smile his own nonetheless. It further breaks with Joyce’s somewhat exasperated _c’mon, you can do better than that!_

When he gets his phone back, Billy’s grinning bright and wide in the photo.

After another run-in that includes a bone crushing hug from a teary Claudia Henderon - Dustin gasps dramatically when he witnesses a stunned Billy in the tight embrace of his mother’s arms and calls Claudia a _traitor_ \- and Mrs. Sinclair cornering Steve about college in fall, they’re able to make a break for the parking lot.

There, they find their first private moment in hours in the front seat of the Camaro, cackling and sweating under their robes.

“Christ’s sake, I thought we were _never_ going to get out of there,” Billy gripes as he tosses his cap in the backseat. “If I knew I was going to have to be adopted by like, all of those dweebs’ parents _and_ the chief of police, maybe I wouldn’t have signed up for this.”

Steve teases his hair with his fingers and dabs his sweaty forehead with the bottom of his robe before shimmying it off, whacking his head on the roof. Billy snickers as he also tries to disentangle himself from his robes.

“Oh shut up, you _know_ you love it. And, uh, anyway — what was that whole thing with Nancy’s mom?”

Billy makes an unhappy little grumbling noise. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Steve watches him fluff his curls, undo a few more buttons on the loose button down tee he’s wearing. The black and white striped fabric is darker in spots where he’s been sweating. The bottom of it is spilling out of his jeans, tight and black and cuffed just under the top of his boots.

“I can _see_ you staring, Steve.”

“Well now I really _wanna_ know!” When Billy throws him more side eye, looking a little tired and weak at the same time, almost like he’s begging Steve not to push further or figure it out, Steve thinks he gets it. “Oh my god, did… did Karen Wheeler _hit on you?”_

“I _thought_ I said I didn’t wanna talk about it!” Billy snaps, turning his attention to the driver’s side visor. “But if you’re going to be _annoying_ about it, _yes,_ I used my charms and good fuckin’ looks to get some answers outta her when Max went missing all day last fall and she bought into it like, _way_ too hard. Plus, her and those other desperate housewives get so wet seein’ me at work I almost get knocked off the damn chair by how bad they’re throwing it off.”

Steve _has_ to snort. Maybe it is kind of Billy’s fault for being so damn convincing with this whole showy beta charade that most of the desperate stay-at-home moms, regardless of their class, are a - at the very least - little horny for him, but still. They’re _moms_. Take the horny issue up with your partner, not out on some _closeted_ teenager.

“Don’t fuckin’ laugh at me, it’s _gross_ -“

Steve leans over the center console to wrap an arm around Billy’s shoulders, thumb at the edge of his jaw. Rubs his nose against Billy’s cheek.

“I’m just fucking with you, I don’t mean it,” he pecks the side of his mouth for good measure, sees Billy flush at the easiness of the nickname, “I’m not gonna let a horny mom or _anyone_ my parents’ age try to pull something on you, I _promise_. So c’mon, let’s finish getting ready, get outta here, grab some food, and knock everyone on their asses — what do you say?”

Billy flushes in his hold but nods nonetheless. Turns to kiss him back before going back to his primping and preening. Steve grins and unfolds the passenger visor.

☆

They take a detour on their way to the quarry — stopping by their chosen Sonic for a quick dinner. Some minor nourishment to fill their stomachs and stave off getting too fucked to drive back after. It also makes them fashionably late; Billy never shows up on time and Steve always chose not too.

An opportunity to show off a little. And deservedly so.

Steve gets a cherry slush with nerds while Billy orders strawberry; it doesn’t stop either of them from stealing sips off of each other’s drinks. There’s tater tots and mozzarella sticks and chicken strips laid out on wrapping paper.

When they kiss, it tastes like salt and grease and fresh fruit. Like summertime.

When they pull up to the thickly wooded back entrance of the quarry, Billy hesitates, foot idling on the brake. He audibly swallows. There’s a distant echo of music playing and people laughing.

It’s not like he’s going to _reveal_ himself tonight, which would make this even more of a _thing_ , but it’s clear he’s uneasy about them showing up together in this capacity anyway. Despite the months of secret hook-ups and last minute hang-outs, it’s only been a few days since their big talk. It’s a lot to make an announcement like this when the honeymoon phase is fresh and new and personal obstacles are still strong.

Because now, showing off to a hefty majority of their classmates, Billy’s dad _could_ find out about _them_ even if Billy’s not shouting from the rooftops that he’s also an omega and this is some _super_ queer shit instead of a beta proudly nailing an omega. Anyone here tonight could mention _you hear Harrington and Hargrove are a thing?_ in the small gossip circles throughout town and Billy’s dad could catch wind _or_ his stepmom could hear and accidentally tattle and then what?

It’s what has to have him so scared: the possibility of word spreading by tomorrow morning and Neil finding out.

Even if his things have been sneakily packed in boxes with Max’s help and holed up in the guest room in Steve’s house - a temporary escape if anything, because Steve hasn’t _exactly_ told his parents about Billy keeping his stuff there _and_ he doesn’t even know what Billy’s plans come fall even are yet - is high.

But it’s still a risk Billy’s willing to take. A simultaneous big move for them both, with a higher risk to Billy’s safety than Steve’s family’s proposed dignity.

Now though, Steve puts his hand on Billy’s thigh and gently squeezes.

“Hey,” he says softly, “I got you. If it’s too much, or it’s too soon, _whatever_ , you just gotta tell me and we’ll leave.”

After a beat of staring into space, Billy nods. It seems to calm him enough to pull forward into a secluded area at the edge of the trees. It’s gravelly and dusty and mostly bare of grass due to the abundance of cars that have marked the area as a makes-shift parking lot. Most everyone seems to be congregated at the top, on the bluffs, but with it being so warm it’s likely at some point people will split off from the bonfire and go skinny-dipping below.

Billy grips his hand as they climb the hill and come upon the gathering. The fire itself isn’t particularly tall, the pit dug deep into the rocky earth and barricaded with stone, but it’s radiating a good amount of heat. There’s already a decent crowd, meaning most everyone already here must’ve come straight from graduation.

The first one who notices them is Tommy, dressed in a ridiculously bright blue Hawaiian shirt completely unbuttoned to show off his soft, freckled torso, and a silver cross necklace hanging from his neck. He waves from behind Carol, who’s swaying to the music with her eyes closed, Juul in hand. Tommy’s freckled hand is high up on her thigh, tucked under the flowy red fabric of her babydoll dress.

Billy doesn’t drop his hand as they edge closer. Instead he squeezes impossibly tighter, hard enough that it’s starting to hurt, but Steve doesn’t make him slacken his grip.

As they fully join the crowd, Tommy’s mouth falls open. He points directly at them, hyena cackling.

“I knew it! I fucking _knew it_ , I knew you sneaky fuckers were pulling some shit, god _damn_ -”

Anyone else that spares them a glance either seems to share in Tommy’s sentiments by cheering and whistling, or seems genuinely surprised, but not unhappy. Steve gets thrown a few jealous glances from Vicki Carmichael, Nicole Peretti and Andrew Lau, but it’s nothing he can’t live with. He wonders if anyone of them knew Billy was an omega, if their sour faces would remain.

Over a few hours, the watercolor sky fades to black. The bonfire only grows, bright and blazing orange, and the crowd surrounding it has grown thick, full of undulating bodies. Red solo cups and beer cans lay scattered on the ground, on the buckets, water coolers and log benches acting as makeshift seating.

There’re miscellaneous bottles of pilfered liquors, everything from Jack Daniels to vanilla cream Vodka, and warm jugs of store bought margarita mix, Coca Cola and orange juice. The smart audition of water bottles joins the mess.

Billy’s nursing his second beer - a slow night for him, for sure, because he’s barely tipsy - as he grinds up against Steve’s ass. Something familiar, rhythm repetitive and lyrics low pitched, is blasting and he keeps bitching about all the Tiktok music like he doesn’t have a thumb hooked in Steve’s belt loop, nearly dry-humping him to the heavy bass thump.

Meanwhile, Tommy rolled Steve another tight joint like ten minutes ago so he’s got that half-burnt and pinched between his fingers, blowing sour o-rings out into smokey night air and occasionally back into Billy’s mouth.

As the fire’s grown and the sun set, too, most everyone has shed some clothing.

Carol openly slipped her bra off twenty minutes ago, made a real show off it as she pulled the lacy bralette through her dress sleeves and stuffed it into her bag. Tommy won’t stop cupping her tits and rolling her nipples between his fingers over the thin fabric of her dress. She keeps acting like she hates it but when his hands trail back down to her hips she’s guiding them back up to her chest and grinning wickedly.

Steve rolls his eyes at them, not even surprised at their antics; Tommy just sticks his tongue out and Carol cackles.

Billy’s shirt is abandoned over by Carol’s bag so his chest is slick with sweat and spilled beer against the back of Steve’s once-crisp dress shirt. There’s dirt smudged across one of his boots and he stole a scrunchie from Katie Zerpa so he’s got it pulled into a loose bun, stray curls sticking to his forehead.

Steve’s own shirt’s undone and open, too, his sleeves rolled up. He’s thankful he changed out of his dress shoes - leather and uncomfortable as all hell, he doesn’t _care_ if Mom got them for him in Italy - and slipped on some sneakers instead, some grimy Stan Smith collabs that Billy openly mocks him for owning - “What do you _mean_ Adidas isn’t sponsoring you already, Jesus _fuck_ Steve, who _needs_ this many shoes?” - because they’re all kicking up dirt and old ash. The exposed line of his ankles under the cuffs of his fitted, pale jeans are coated in a thin layer of dust.

But he still looks good, _feels_ good under the sweat and heat and hash haze. Over nips of Billy’s beer and Tommy’s jungle juice. They’ve been here for a few hours and Billy hasn’t freaked out or pulled him back in the direction of his car. So far, he can call it a good night.

Only thing is, all the weed and heat mixed with Billy on him, rutting and rolling his hips, and the occasional hungry eyes cast in their direction, has him _really_ horny. He’s wet and sticking to his underwear, some red bikini briefs he knows Billy will like, and being back home, spread out in bed with Billy’s mouth and hands on him, suddenly feels a lot more enticing than all the socialization and celebrating.

“Hey, follow me,” he says in Billy’s ear then, taking his hand.

Tommy clicks his tongue and winks at them as they walk past and a few others toss their cups and cans up in encouragement. Billy snorts at Steve’s middle finger response and trails close behind him.

He leads Billy to an opposite thicket of trees not too far off from the bonfire, the opposite direction of the cars in case anyone else pulls up. It’s close enough they can rejoin without taking another hike, but far enough away and dark enough they can’t be seen from or heard by the mass congregation.

Once hidden, only abstract strips of dancing orange light to guide them, he pins Billy up against a tree and immediately goes for his neck. The skin is salty under his tongue. Billy hums throatily as he grabs hold of his hips.

Steve slots one thigh between Billy’s legs and languidly rocks into him, encouraging him to do the same. Billy’s thigh presses against the thick seam of his zip and is able to drive it right into his dick. The pressure is subtle but present. Steve bites down on Billy’s clavicle in a vain attempt to silence himself.

And here, now, Billy smells _amazing_. Has all night. At the ceremony, he almost thought it was someone else, but now he _knows_ it’s Billy. The harsh chemical mask of cologne is feather light. Under the bonfire and dry grass and wood, there’s peppered honey and cinnamon thick in his nose.

“God, you smell so fucking _good_ ,” Steve snarls as he moves to tug Billy’s earring between his teeth, “you smell like _you_.”

Billy huffs out a laugh and slides a hand up Steve’s chest, the slight dip between his pecs, to rub a thumb over his nipple. He digs a deft nail into it and Steve hisses.

“I got my dose lowered on my blockers,” he says gruffly, “been dropping them every week for a few weeks.” Steve pulls off of him in genuine shock, but before he can figure what to say, Billy adds, “But I’m not totally off ‘em yet; not safe to just go cold turkey.”

Steve shakes his head in disbelief. “I thought you, I thought you didn’t -“

“Well I don’t really _need_ ‘em anymore,” Billy says, and his hands fall to Steve’s hips, reeling him back in. “All the reasons I was on ‘em in the first place, y’know,” he shrugs, so _nonchalant_ , “don’t really matter, s’the past.”

“Yeah, _yeah_ , I get that but -”

Billy fucking _nips_ the tip of his nose to shut him up and Steve’s so thrown by it he huffs and quickly cups a hand over it protectively. Scowls at Billy’s cheeky grin. Like, _ow_.

“ _Hey_ ,” Steve huffs, more short of breath than anything else, “hold up a sec, I thought you didn’t want anyone here to know, like at all. _Ever_.”

It’s a _safety_ thing, he was told, once. It was all for his _safety_ , in part — that and a cover up for the sake of his father’s ego. For years Billy’s been pumped with artificial hormones to numb out his senses, stifle his scent, (supposedly) quash his urges. Scrub all evidence of _omega_ and _queer_ from him. As far as Steve knew, he was _still_ gripping onto his fears.

Billy nuzzles into the hook of his jaw. “I’m not gonna say anything. Let ‘em figure it out for themselves.”

But he wants to know _why_. _Why_ Billy’s taking the leap now after years of refilled prescriptions and medication regimens, of boasting how it just makes things _easier_ for him —

“I can _literally_ see all the gears turning in your head right now, knock it off,” Billy snarks then, flicking him on the chin. “You’re going all sour.”

Steve lets out a heavy breath through his nose and looks down at the ground. Their shoes are covered in a fine layer of ash and dust. The grass underfoot is yellowing and overgrown.

Billy sighs then and strokes a thumb over the apple of his cheek. Brings him back into eyeline. The corner of his mouth tilts just so.

“Steve. I’m not some scared little queer omega getting fuckin’ preyed on, totally incapable of defending myself. Not _anymore_ , at least. A lot of that was my old man filling my head with his bullshit, and now I don’t, I mean he can’t _force_ me to be on meds or anything anymore. And I don’t wanna keep pretending I’m something I’m not. Like,” Billy looks off to the side for a moment, “yeah, some shitty stuff has happened to me and it didn’t help when the old man got in my fuckin’ head about it, but it’s. It happened. It was shitty. And I think I wanna move on from it.” He steps in closer and bumps their noses together softly. “I at least wanna _try_ to,” he says, his eyes wide and honest, striking blue where orange flecks of bonfire catch them.

Steve nods as he drinks it all in. Leans into Billy’s heat and drops his weight so he’s pushing him back into the tree. Just holds onto him for a minute. He’d be _trying_ to verbalize everything this means in the grand scheme of things, hold Billy’s face in sweat-sticky hands and wax poetic about bravery and steps forward and other corny bullshit, but he’s thinking they can talk this out in more depth later. Maybe when they’re not throbbing in their jeans and half their graduating class isn’t forty yards away.

So for now, he’ll take this.

He kisses Billy slow, shy almost, but they quickly get back to where they were before. His thigh slots back between Billy’s and he grinds, knee bumping into the chapped bark. Billy’s hands climb up his back, under his shirt. He grounds himself by digging his nails into his shoulder blades, making Steve grunt against his mouth.

They get lost in the lazy grind, the languid pulls of their mouths and their hips, stuttering against each other. Steve’s nearly riding Billy’s thigh, probably soaking through his underwear. He’s throwing it off so bad. He _knows_ Billy can smell him — vanilla bean and blossoming flowers.

Billy’s scent still mostly clings to his skin as opposed to the air around them, but this close, Steve’s drowning in it. Needs to drink it down, swallow him whole. And he could, if he knelt down into the dry grass, tugged Billy’s pants down _just_ enough, well —

“ _Steve_ ,” Billy grunts abruptly, “ _fuck_ , gimme a sec.”

But Steve’s still up in his space, breathing the same air, letting his dick lead him. Keeps rutting his thigh between Billy’s until Billy physically halts him. He’s breathing incredibly hard. Even cast in blue shadow, his cheeks are a vibrant scarlet.

“I’m gonna come in my pants if you keep doing that,” he pants.

Lightning shoots through Steve, curling his toes and bubbling his gut, but as hot as that would be, he’d rather not start this here where they can’t lay out and be loud, lest they want to attract a crowd. Getting splinters in his ass and hands and sticks in his hair doesn’t sound all that great either.

Gently, he nips at Billy’s mouth, “Let’s go back to my place, alright? Hot as a little exhibitionsm is, I _kinda_ wanna do this in a bed.”

Billy nods dazedly against him. He’s so obviously lust-drunk but also maybe a little crossfaded off the beer and shotgunning and summer heat. Steve adjusts them both a bit, tugging up his own jeans where they’ve started to slip from the grinding and dusting bits of bark off of Billy’s exposed back. He knots their fingers back together again and tugs Billy out of the thicket of trees.

It’s bad etiquette to just dip, even with this many people around, so despite Billy’s grumble of displeasure, Steve waves good-bye to those he talks to on a semi-regularly basis. The crowd on the bluffs is slightly thinner; most people seem to have left to cool off at the lake’s edge below, spread out on blankets and shed clothes, or splashing and laughing in the water.

Tommy and Carol are still at the bonfire, Tommy sitting on the ground with Carol between his legs, a joint between his lips. Carol’s nursing a red cup filled with what Steve has to assume is something that tastes like a melted lollipop.

Upon seeing them, Tommy immediately pouts. “Man, you two leaving already?”

“Mm, _that_ was fast,” Carol giggles. “Didn’t take you for a two-pump chump, Billy.”

Billy smirks as he shows her the bird, rolls his eyes. Steve pokes him in the hip.

“We’re taking it back to mine,” he says pointedly at both of them.

Tommy lets out a little huff of annoyance while Carol shrugs and leans back against his chest, one hand splayed on his knee. “Fair — not so fun getting bug bites on your ass and picking pine needles out of your shorts.” She takes another swig of her drink. “Are you guys coming to Tommy’s grad party tomorrow night?” Despite the slight slur to her voice, she sounds hopeful.

“My folks’ are coming back tomorrow, but I’ll sneak out if I gotta.”

Nevermind Tommy or Carol being disappointed if he doesn’t show up — Tommy’s mother Gloria will drive over and pick him up _herself_ if he misses out. Will drag him out by his ear even if his parents protest and will mutter at him for being _irresponsible_ between rapid fire cursing that Steve only understands from years spent at the Hagans’, watching Tommy and his brothers get their asses handed to them for being little pricks.

Billy nods curtly in response next to him. He’s tapping his foot in an aggravated matter, nose scrunched up too, making him look much like a pissy rabbit. Clenching his retrieved shirt between his fingers. Steve hip-checks him gently. _Give me a sec and we’ll go_.

Carol smiles, tipsy and pleased. Dismisses them with a flit of her fingers. Tommy reaches out to fist-bump them both, tells them to _keep it wrapped!_ with a cackle. Obviously still none the wiser.

Before Billy properly tugs him down the hill, has them nearly _running_ back to the car, Steve hears Tommy’s, “Aight no offense, but someone smells _really_ good -” and has to stifle a laugh behind his hand.

☆

The whole drive to Loch Nora, Billy’s got his hand high up on Steve’s thigh, nearly cupping his crotch. He speeds a little - which is _slow_ for him, really - but there are definitely worse things going the night of graduation than a little reckless driving. Even with half the graduating class away in Fort Wayne for grad night, spending their first hours of total freedom in a big rec center with an indoor waterpark, there’s enough rowdy parties to keep Hop and the deputies busy.

Billy humps against his ass while he fruitlessly tries to unlock the door. If he didn’t want to risk giving the neighbors another eyeful, he’d gladly let Billy into his pants right here. He groans in relief when he finally unlocks it, quickly fiddles with the keypad even with Billy’s teeth on his neck, hands on his hips.

He’s trying to kick off his shoes when Billy tries to tug him towards the stairs. “Shoes _off_ ,” he grunts. “I don’t want my mom bitching at us because we get dirt on the carpet the _one time_ she’ll be home to see it.”

Billy huffs and hastily undoes the laces on his boots, kicks them off haphazardly. Shoots him a _there, happy now?_ look and leans towards the stairs again. Steve rolls his eyes and flicks his chin towards the staircase. Billy grins and starts up before him, but he’s close enough in front that Steve can give his ass a playful swat from where he trails behind.

He made the bed earlier. Topped it with extra throw pillows and has some laundry hidden under the sheets. He’s pre-nesting. His heat is due sometime next week if the urge to hoard Billy’s forgotten clothes and keeping their gross sex sheets on the bed for far too long is anything to go off of.

Luckily he still only has a few a year and he’s regular enough with the meds to track it. No surprises here. Billy was with him last time too, just not in the same capacity. Was a right fucking tease for too long and then was _too much_ for too long. Had Steve dehydrated coming out of it, he’d come so goddamn much.

Steve figures that won’t be the case now, at least in regards to Billy sticking around a little longer. Figures he’ll still be here in a few days and will gladly take the opportunity to be with him again. Wonders if coming off his blockers, Billy will have more regular heats, too, and they’ll get to spend them _together_ —

“ _C’mon_ , pretty boy,” Billy says from his left, suddenly, “I‘m _horny_. I thought you brought me here for a reason.”

Steve shakes his thoughts away and grins. He corners Billy back against the dresser and gets him by the hips. Opens his mouth with an eager tongue and coaxes a sweet moan out. Billy tugs at his shirt until it falls to the floor. Already has tricky fingers fiddling with his belt when Steve pulls back. The aborted noise Billy makes makes him snort.

“Fuckin’ _tease_ ,” he huffs.

“What, you think you’re the only one here allowed to be a little shit? It’s only - _Jesus_!”

Suddenly Billy scoops him up, warm hands on his lower back and the back of his thigh, and Steve _yelps_ in surprise, scrambling for purchase at Billy’s shoulders, before he finds himself dropped heavily to his bed. Billy’s insistent over him, all his weight pinning him down. Heat rolls off him in waves, radiating campfire warmth.

Billy grins, all teeth, down at him. “That’s better.”

Steve sticks his tongue out. _Ass_. He cages Billy between his thighs, locking his ankles low on his back. Uses the leverage and grinds up the slightest bit. Billy’s forehead, sweat-slick, drops to his shoulder. His throat rumbles with a low, contented hum. Steve repeats the action and cranes his neck to nibble Billy’s earlobe - always denying how sensitive his ears are, even when he’s shivering from just a breath on the shell - and whisper.

“So — how we wanna do this tonight?”

Billy hums throatily before he sits back, no longer pressing them together. Steve blinks up at him, waiting. A wicked crook falls upon Billy’s brow and he says nothing as he’s suddenly pushing off the bed and finding his knapsack sitting on Steve’s desk chair.

Steve sits up on his elbows. Watches curiously as Billy unzips the largest pocket and starts carding through it, at whatever random ideas he’s got stowed away.

“Babe?”

Billy ignores him, mutters something under his breath. Steve scowls at the back of his head. If he was closer, he’d kick him in the butt - gently, because one time he did that to be funny and Billy dead-legged him the next chance he got - but there’s too much space between them.

“I’m gonna start without you if you don’t hurry up,” he tries.

Billy chuckles darkly and extracts a decent sized silken black bag from the deep recesses of his bag. He shakes it at Steve and starts undoing the drawstring.

“I was thinking,” he muses, “we could give this a try, eh? Liven up the celebration a little bit more?”

Steve’s eyes must bug out of his head. He swallows thickly.

Clasped in Billy’s palm is a long, thick, double ended dildo. It’s bent in half, purple and slightly translucent, with a fun ribbed texture in a few different spots across the shaft. The tips at both ends are blunt and crudely accurate. Steve feels his whole body flash with a new source of heat.

“When did you get _that_?” he asks, voice high in his throat.

Billy flops it obscenely between his hands until it unfolds. “Mm, a little while ago. Been saving it for a special occasion.” The soft PVC smacks against his palms loudly. “I think tonight’s special enough, don’t you?”

Steve audibly swallows. “I mean, _yeah_ , uh, I guess.”

Billy mosies over and dips down to kiss him once. “Trust me, you’ll _love_ it. Now get your fuckin’ clothes off, I wanna see you.”

Save Billy’s grabby hands on his hips when he gets an eyeful of the laced underwear hiding under his jeans, Steve’s never gotten undressed faster in his life.

☆

They’re both bare skinned as they sit adjacent to each other on the bed. Steve’s legs are crossed politely while Billy leans back on one hand, one leg crooked up to rest his other arm over his knee, showing himself off a little more. Between them is Billy’s bag of wonders, its contents thrown up onto the duvet.

Steve can’t stop staring at the double tipped dildo or the glass butt plug - it has a little black poof on the end like a rabbit’s tail and Steve wants to _die_ \- or the little clit/cock pump that could hide in a closed fist. It’s not even a fraction of what he knows Billy’s got stowed away in that beat up old Doc Martens shoebox in the guestroom.

When Billy started bringing toys into the mix months back, Steve nearly had a heart attack. He’d only had the bare minimum of a ‘back massager’ purchased guiltily at a home wares store and a few small dildos bought to be used between hook-ups. Got off mostly with the help of fingers and tongues and fat cocks.

His gaze shifts to the magic wand, some professional grade shit that must’ve cost Billy an _uncomfortable_ amount of money. He probably couldn’t even use it back on Cherry Lane unless everyone else was out of the house. Steve’s felt how _Herculean_ that thing is.

If the whirring of the toy isn’t an air siren in its own right, the noises it’ll pull from _you_ are an even exchange.

“Are we gonna get to this anytime soon or,” Billy gestures to the toys, “are we gonna sit here and have some kinda sex toy seance?”

Steve shoots him a tired look. Billy just snorts and pats his knee.

“How exactly do we _do_ this?” Steve picks up the dildo and gestures to Billy with it. “Does one of us go first, do we get on it at the same time — like what’s the game plan here?”

And he imagines yeah, it _is_ going to feel _great_ , because they don’t have any pre-existing supplies on hand that can give them simultaneous pleasure, unless they’re crowded in close, both rutting against the same vibrator, or jerking each other off side by side. Otherwise, unless they’re sixty-nining, one’s usually self-pleasuring while they service the other, or they take turns getting each other off.

Not that Steve’s got a _problem_ with that, because he’s infatuated with being able to really focus on Billy’s pleasure without the worry of being unintentionally selfish in his own but still — it’d be _nice_ to try something else out.

Honestly he’s been eyeing something double ended they can use together, with or without the strap, for awhile, but he hasn’t been brave enough to make a decision and just pick something out already.

Billy’s also clearly got the toy thing _down_ \- Steve knows he didn’t buy all of them himself too and he’s not even gonna _ask_ ; he’ll just keep taking advantage of the situation - so there’s really no point anyway.

“Baby, you’re looking at it like you just caught it boning your mom,” Billy says then, and Steve realizes that he’s been embarrassingly swept up in thinking about fucking _dildos_ , “let’s work up to this, huh? Maybe I came in a little hot.”

 _You always do_ , Steve wants to joke, but he keeps it to himself.

“Yeah, uh, maybe that’d be easier.”

Billy grins, all Cheshire wide, bright like sunshine - not like how he does when he doesn’t mean it, even though he hasn’t seen that smarmy grin for awhile; the dimple in his cheek and pinch in the corner of his eyes are his tell - and he’s nudging the bag and its contents out of the way so he can settle over Steve’s body, lay him out flat.

Steve lets himself be moved onto his back. He spreads his thighs for Billy to climb between them. The only light in the room is the trail of fairy lights they strung up around the perimeter of the room the same afternoon Robin found them making out on the front steps of the house - when he’d made a comment about _mood lighting_ Billy had rolled his eyes but said it distracted from the _ugly ass wallpaper_ if anything - which colors them in a soft focus of gold.

He doesn’t know if it’s the tangible atmosphere of freedom from the confines of public education and Billy’s supposedly stable presence in his life, or the weed still circulating his system and blurring the edges, or even just rekindling the fire of arousal, but there’s _something_ about this moment - Billy’s mouth hot over his, stomachs pressed together - that feels so _right_.

On the way back from the quarry, he expected to be bent over his mattress with Billy’s teeth on his spine and fingers between his legs within five minutes of pulling into the driveway. The dewy palm spread over his ribs and fuzzy thighs blocking his in is almost more overwhelming.

Billy’s hand slowly moves down his body, seemingly more focused on licking the tang of sour hash and hours-old cherry flavoring out of his mouth than actively working towards the prize of the night. Even as it finds its way to where it’s most desired, he still has no problem in this slowed pace.

The soft skin between his legs is a little prickly with stubble - it’s such a fucking _chore_ to stay completely bare, _Jesus_ , he needs to engage a pornstar for those secrets - when Billy’s fingers dance over it. Steve hums contentedly against the side of Billy’s mouth when his middle finger trails down his cock and presses into the tip. He circles around it a few times and the pressure is _just_ on the right side of enough.

Having the opposite dominant hands makes touching Billy back a little difficult, especially considering Steve’s often laughable fumbling with his left to try and give Billy a little something in return, but he _tries_. Knocks into Billy’s wrist as he takes a more direct approach and slides his index and middle finger up his slit, dipping his fingers in the warm wetness there.

Billy rubs at him a little more incessantly and Steve tries to match his enthusiasm but the angle’s _weird_ and keeps knocking into Billy’s hand because he’s _still_ not good enough at this —

“ _Woah_ tiger,” Billy purrs then, and Steve pauses where his fingers are dipped between Billy’s folds, on the edge of breaching him, “‘m _seriously_ gonna come if you keep doing that, like I’m _that_ turned on.”

Stupidly, Steve manages an, “Oh, okay.”

Billy soothes him with a peck, a hand on his hip. “Thinkin’ we could maybe work the edge off before we keep going huh?” He’s suddenly slipping down the bed, sinking down onto the floor with practiced grace and dragging Steve down the mattress with him by his hip. “I _really_ wanna eat you out.”

It shoots an arrow right to his gut - as if Billy’s never given him head before - and Steve almost nods, dazed, but then he gets a better idea.

“ _Yeah_ , but,” Steve sits up so he’s looking down at Billy, half crouched on the carpet, “I think you should get back up here, because I wanna,” he bites into his lip, suddenly so dizzy on their mixing pheromones, “wanna go down on you, too.”

Billy’s eyes glimmer in interest, catching pinpricks of light from the winking bulbs overhead, and he likes that, _really_ likes that, because he’s wordlessly climbing back onto the bed and swiftly turning the opposite direction once he has his thighs spread over Steve’s hips. He’s shifting, stretching out long like a basking cat, and suddenly Steve finds Billy’s hips pinning his shoulders to the plush blankets, his sturdy thighs bracketing his ears, the weight of his torso keeping him pinned.

And Billy’s cunt is _right there_ , inches away, just barely open but so pink and wet. His little cock is so hard, nearly pulsing with arousal. Steve smiles to himself as a careful finger up Billy’s inner thigh makes him shudder.

“Nice view, huh?” Billy teases - more so _rumbles_ , his voice thick with arousal and going gravelly - over one shoulder. “Mm, I can’t complain either. You’re so _pretty_ , baby, _Christ_.” Steve’s breath hitches as warm air puffs out over his cock, and his folds are being spread open, vulnerable, Billy’s throat vibrating on his thigh as he purrs, “Can’t fuckin’ get enough.”

Suddenly he’s in Billy’s mouth, all hot wet pressure, and he pinches his eyes shut hard enough to see abstract flashes of red and blue and purple. A ragged groan tears its way out of his throat. Billy chastely kisses prickled flesh before sucking him down again.

He hums as the flat of his tongue rolls over Steve’s dick, flicks at the head, sparking nerves to life. His nose is nudging inwards from this angle, too, probably smearing wet across his face; Steve weakly widens his thighs for better access.

If he wanted to be rendered useless, he would’ve just let Billy stay on the floor and take care of him there, so Steve smooths his hands up and down Billy’s inner thighs a few times, trying to assess where to start. Downy blond hairs tickle his palms.

He spreads Billy apart with his fingers, already such a travesty from a little kissing and rubbing — dick alert, clenching on emptiness, dripping clear. Some of the trim hairs running down his folds are matted down with slick. If he looked at Billy’s jeans right now, he imagines he’d find his wet staining the denim a few shades darker.

Holding Billy open with one hand, he sinks two crooked fingers on the opposite into him. Keeps his palm downturned to reach the good spots. Billy grunts between his thighs when his fingers go in as deep as they can. They gently kick back and forth inside of him.

Steve has to crane his neck to taste him. It’s harder to suck Billy’s cock like this when they’re so close in height, with his hand in the way, so he laps around his fingers. Drinks down heat and tang. Makes Billy pull away a few times, thighs quivering overhead, as he bites his revenge into Steve’s own thighs and hips.

One of Billy’s fingers slips inside of him after a few minutes of working him up with his tongue and immediately goes knuckle deep. He corkscrews it, playing with the change in position, and Steve nearly beartraps his wrist between his legs when Billy hits something _good_ that has his head slamming back onto the mattress.

“Aw, did I find a hotspot?” Billy teases him, panting.

Steve huffs and pinches Billy’s asscheek. “Shut _up_.”

Billy cackles against the inside of his thigh. He keeps moving his finger as he slots his mouth back over Steve’s cock. The tips of his curls are falling from behind his ears and tickling. Steve tenses through the sensations and gets back to what he was doing, but now with more insistence. Determined to work Billy over first.

Luckily, it doesn’t take long like this - tongue working its way inside, sucking up his mess loudly while his thumb plays with Billy’s dick, his fingers rocking inside, a squelching racket - before Billy’s gasping overhead, forehead pressing into the mattress between Steve’s legs. He drops his weight back and he’s like, _fully_ using Steve’s face as a throne. Seizing up and quivering.

It’s drawn out — probably encouraged by Steve keeping him stimulated despite the newfound lack of oxygen. Billy shakes his way through it, rubs himself across Steve’s mouth. When he does start coming down, he’s still shaking a little, breath coming out in hot clouds and making Steve distantly aware of just how _soaked_ he is when the warm air ghosts over him.

Billy lets out this breathless laugh when he garners enough strength in his legs to move off of Steve’s face, rotating drunkenly over him so they’re facing each other. Steve knows there’s slick smeared across his face and stringing dewy webs between his fingers and thumb.

“ _Fuck_ , baby,” Billy breathes.

He mops some of the mess up with his thumb and feeds it to Steve. Steve laps the come off the appendage lazily. Lets his eyes flutter closed when Billy dips down for a messy kiss, knowingly tasting himself smeared across Steve’s puffy mouth and tongue.

Billy suddenly draws back and flops down beside him, making them both bounce on the bed a little. He grins, teeth devilish in contrast to his rosy cheeks and the halo of golden brown curls spread across the baby blue duvet, and wordlessly he pats his chest.

Steve doesn’t even have to ask; that signal is probably universal for _sit on my face_.

Billy adjusts so he’s slightly aided by the pillows and Steve hastily clambers onto his knees. Crawls his way up so he’s hesitating just over Billy’s mouth, is able to lean on the headboard this way to peer down at him, all sparkling with fresh sweat and bathed in lavender shadows.

A pat on one cheek tells Steve to scoot forward more - which he obliges - so Billy can suck him off. Billy’s got limited access like this, Steve leaning up higher on his face than directly on his mouth. Another insistent pat tells Steve to dip forward too, reclining more heavily on his arms at the headboard, but he knows why. Doesn’t ask.

Billy’s fingers slip down between his cheeks, briefly pressing against his asshole in a tease, before three easily press into his cunt. It’s a sudden breach. Steve exhales a shaky breath and his eyes pinch shut. Billy doesn’t take his time, obviously eager to get to the toy sitting a few feet away, seemingly watching them, and fucks his fingers in at a pace that’ll make his wrist hurt later.

His mouth isn’t kind and coaxing in contrast. He sucks hungrily, taps the tip of his tongue directly against the head of Steve’s cock. Pulls off and hollows his lips in rapid succession. There’s probably spit and come glossing his chin.

All Steve can hear outside of the thrumming of his blood in his ears are the messy sucks Billy’s mouth offers and the wet contact of his knuckles incessantly tapping _in in in_. Steve can’t tell if he’s just breathing heavily or if he’s actually making sounds in response to Billy’s overwhelming touch.

He doesn’t fare much better by way of timing. Maybe two minutes of that pass - _if_ he’s being kind - and the turning in his belly is impossible to push away. He keeps his eyes closed as he clamps down. Tries weakly to will himself into not gushing on Billy’s face as the wave pulls him in and under.

 _Mostly_ , he manages.

He’s a little dazed when Billy coaxes him down. The twinkling lights strung up around them blur and sharpen intermittently as he blearily settles himself on Billy’s chest. The plush muscle makes a nice pillow. Billy’s previously occupied hand is slippery as it holds him low on his back. The other soothes down his spine, tender for a mere intermission.

It’s usually not until after everything that Billy’s drawing him in, (now) offering real kisses and pets and praise unlaced with filth. He’s not going to complain though. At least Billy’s _trying_ to grow more comfortable with open tenderness. Their hand holding at the bonfire is a test of that.

“You’re not tapping out on me already, are you?” Billy teases quietly.

Steve rolls his eyes, not unamused. “Jeez, gimme a sec, you just _fingerblasted_ me.”

“I’m just _checking_.”

A minute passes and Steve eases himself back up into sitting position, balanced over Billy’s hips, and shakes his head. Flicks his hair out of his eyes. He turns over his shoulder to eye the dildo again. Reaches back, nearly falling, to grab it before it falls off the side of the mattress.

It’s definitely girthy but it’s nothing neither of them hasn’t taken before. That triple-notched piece hiding in his bedside drawer still takes the fucking cake. He smacks it against his palm like Billy had, making Billy snort and settle his hands on his thighs. Steve knows in practice it can’t be _that_ hard to use together, but in theory it’s a little hazier.

Then, he gets an idea.

“I think I’m ready,” Steve says, drawing his brows up as he regards Billy, “but lemme do something first.”

Clamoring out of Billy’s lap, he moves off the bed to the opposite window, fully exposing them to the teal glow from the pool outside. Now, still mostly basked in darkness, the shadows sharp casts of lilac and navy and dusty rose around the room, the soft string lights and soft aquamarine give everything a different atmosphere.

A little ethereal, maybe, particularly with Billy’s golden skin and honeyed hair catching the different light beams — a snapshot straight out of a technicolor wet dream. Steve doesn’t want to call it _romantic_ because that’s fucking cliché - even if them dating or not - _and_ they’re about to fuck each other, but it just. It feels _right_ this way.

Sue him, he’s got a soft center.

He’s then fumbling with his phone, trying desperately to quickly find _that_ playlist, a compiled mess of Billy’s need for a solid tempo and hard beat and Steve’s fixation on a specific tone of catchy, foot-tapping and finger drumming, mostly regardless of genre. Thematically though, this playlist is very _focused_.

 _For sexy stuff, you know?_ he’d explained, when Billy had found the aforementioned playlist a month or so back and questioned him about it, leaving his own cheeks burning in embarrassment at his answer while Billy chuckled, browsing through the provided tracks and doing a little doctoring.

It feels like leaps and bounds of time have passed since then. Even just since the beginning of the week, crying and yelling at each other in the baking sun before crash landing onto the front step in a flurry of emotion. All teen romance love proclamations.

As if there was a stopwatch counting down, if they didn’t do something soon it would be fucking too late so _fuck it, let’s just give this a shot?_ And it’s just the beginning of this newfound thing. They’re still in the prologue. And in this moment, they’re doing what they’ve been doing for months already, but it all feels so different.

So new and so much _better_.

His phone connects to the speaker with a little trill. The initial shuffled pick coming through, crisp and clear unlike the tinny phone speaker, is something a little dreamy, a little slower, _we could fuck all night, then get high_ —

“Oh _Stevie_ ,” Billy clicks his tongue, grinning. “Mood music? You’re such a _sap_.”

Steve glares over his shoulder, like Billy doesn’t do the exact same thing. “Shut _up_ , it’s a special occasion so just, fucking, just _hold on_ ,” and tries to kick Billy in the hip, missing and making him cackle.

He huffs as he gathers _most_ of the spilled contents from the silken bag and stuffs them inside, then hastily tosses it to Billy’s proclaimed bedside table - where it doesn’t quite land and falls to the floor with a dull _thud_ \- then leans haphazardly off the side of the bed, twisted unnaturally and close to falling himself, with something he wants to incorporate, and plugs it into the socket.

“What the fuck did you… _oh_.”

Steve poorly quashes a grin as he sets the wand within an arm’s reach. He takes hold of a pillow and settles himself running parallel to the headboard, folds the pillow behind him to help him recline. Hoping this works.

If they have to move to the floor for room and leverage, or even have to stop because it’s not for them, so be it.

“I’m gonna,” he encourages Billy to mirror his position with a jerk of his chin, like _c’mon_ , “I’m gonna go first, s’that okay?”

Billy suddenly seems to have fallen a few feet behind. Maybe a little dazed by everything. He nods after a beat, then moves to mirror Steve - pillow folded behind him to recline on, legs spread, leaning back on his elbows - and waits, lips parted and eyes eager. Smelling heady and spiced.

With a steadying breath, Steve takes hold of the toy. He carefully bends it from the centerpoint, trying to remember the precise angle of their other wares, so the tips are specifically angled. The texture itself is a little weird - feels gelatinous, sort of squishy, but also firm and bendable - and he kind of just wants to knead it instead of use it for its obvious purpose.

Still, he persists. Rubs it up and down his slit a few times just to tease, to really hold Billy’s attention. Needs to get used to the feeling of it, too, a little cold without the aid of body heat, and with different textures alternating past the blunt head.

He presses it between his folds with a little more insistence, concentrating the pressure to rub into his dick. He shivers. Still a little oversensitive from Billy’s eager mouth.

Steve changes the angle so it’s pointed towards him as opposed to up and down, and, blushing furiously despite everything, spreads himself so Billy can get a better view. Watch as it presses inside. He clenches down at the thought; Billy can obviously see the way his hole winks and swallows thickly.

“You wet enough?” Billy asks then, voice hoarse. Suddenly he leans forward, wetting his fingers, and dips his dampened hand between them, thumbing spit over Steve’s cock sweetly, almost as if he’s saying hello to it. “God, you’re so _tight_ ; you think it’ll even fit?”

Steve shoots him a tired look. He’s obviously still glistening with Billy’s spit and his own come, all lit up in faded turquoise.

“I think we _both_ know that I’ve had bigger things in me than this. And yes, _obviously_.”

It still turns him on devastatingly easy when Billy talks about how tight he is, how _wet_ he can get, though. He honestly hopes Billy never puts a hold on his filthy mouth.

When he starts to press the tip forward, Billy nudges his ankle with his foot. Steve halts and redirects his attention. Billy’s kneading his lip between his teeth, all backlit in luminescent blue-green, cheeks dotted in faded gold.

“Let me do it?”

Steve doesn’t nod, but he does lean in to kiss him. Just twice, chastely, but it still makes his stomach somersault. When he puts a few inches between their mouths, Billy’s hand overtakes his on the shaft of the dildo. Steve holds his breath and keeps himself spread open as Billy slowly sinks the toy in.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he exhales. His brows knit, he pinches the blanket between his fingers; if it’s not the most he’s had but it’s not exactly a _finger_. It doesn’t help that it’s so long, feels like it just keeps coming, infinite. “Christ, how _deep_ are you trying to get it?”

Billy just snickers and stops feeding it in. He then starts to thrust it in and out slowly, testing the waters. The angle Steve’s purposely bent it at is _supposed_ to feel nice,but he might be sitting up too straight - or his memory served him wrong, yet again - because it’s driving the head upwards uncomfortably. He grunts in discomfort and lays back a little more, spreading his thighs wider, trying to see if that’ll help, and when Billy slips forward —

“ _Oh_ ,” Steve raggedly exhales, “oh, _fuck_ , that’s- _that’s_ it.”

“That feel good?”

Steve nods, scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, mm, real good.”

Billy kisses his knee. Squeezes his calf in a comforting manner. All the while he keeps nudging the toy in and out with slow drags of his wrist. He keeps it deep but maintains some rhythm, almost like he’s bouncing it.

When Billy retracts his hand after a minute and leans back himself, Steve humps against the toy a little, trying to keep it curved into this spot that almost _tickles_ when it’s bumped. It’s deep; he feels the twinge in his belly. Despite the recent orgasm, _god_ does it feel good.

“Not so fast, lemme get on too,” Billy’s voice rumbles suddenly.

Steve huffs and takes the dildo by the center, gripping it in his fist. Tries to hold it steady. Billy’s going to have to work with him a little bit. He at least scoots closer. They bracket each other — heels digging into hips, sweaty thighs and prickled legs crisscrossing.

Carefully, Steve rubs the blunt head up Billy’s slit and swallows.

He’s shining, labia smeared with wet. His cock is blood thick and probably as hard as Steve’s ever seen it. Twinging, almost. Billy’s cheeks are also flush and his chest and stomach are already going splotchy and scarlet. When he spreads himself between his fingers, the tip slides up and over him but doesn’t sink inside. His hole clenches and unclenches hungrily.

Each slight gyration of Billy’s hips wriggles the toy around inside of Steve. It’s still impossibly deep, still hitting that _something_ that makes his stomach clench up, his toes curl. Already making his head fuzzy, full of static.

“ _C’mon_ baby, I want it,” Billy nearly whines, “gimme that fat cock.”

He wriggles his hips and Steve has to bite back a gasp as the toy presses north _hard_. If he doesn’t hurry up, he’ll come before he even gets the tip inside Billy. It’s happened before, wouldn’t be a travesty, but he _really_ wants to feel Billy shiver apart like this, feeling him clench up and shudder in a different way.

“I got you, I got you.” Steve steadies his grip on the toy. “Open up, sweetheart.”

He shimmies his hips forward and slowly slips forward into Billy. Thick fingers bracket the shaft as Billy keeps himself spread. The purple PVC squelches as it slides in. Slowly stuffs him full. Billy holds his breath until there’s no more to give, or at least that he can comfortably take, then lets out this shaky half sigh, half chuckle. Heavily drops back on the mattress.

“Holy _fuck_.”

Yeah, it’s _a lot_. Steve’s not faring much better; he’s just had a few more seconds to adjust to the stretch.

Billy tilts his head up just enough to peer over his chest. “Whad’ya think?”

“It’s uh, still good,” Steve nods, “ _real_ deep.”

Billy doesn’t seem surprised. He’s Cheshire grinning, all cocky, so Steve rightfully shoves his hips forward more and Billy’s head immediately drops back to the mattress with a groan. One hand grips the blanket, knuckles going white.

Because of the angle they’re working with, they can both get down on it pretty far, but they’re not totally flush to each other. They can’t quite make the toy completely disappear.

Steve works himself first, using the bed and Billy’s steady calf for leverage, then Billy starts grinding on it, albeit with a little more fervor. The further Billy works himself on it, the more pinched his brow gets, the harsher his breathing. He’s going to try to not make any noises until it’s physically impossible to keep himself from doing so. It already seems like that’s going to be sooner than he wants.

But seeing the rough shape Billy’s in, Steve doesn’t even want to _know_ how fucked he looks right now. He was already sweaty and dusty from the quarry, probably musky under his vanilla sweet scent - which he _knows_ he’s throwing off like crazy, probably bad enough that someone down the road aways could easily sniff him out - and his hair is damp and flopping in his eyes. His own chest nearly matches the burning red of Billy’s.

Their thighs bump, sweat sticky, as they both hump down on the toy at different intervals. Each push and shove only adds to the uneven pattern they’re working with. Billy fucks himself onto it and it pushes father into Steve, and vice versa. It’s _beyond_ overwhelming. The pressure is constant and insistent.

With a sudden and almost imperceptible shudder, Steve watches Billy come. It’s almost like he’s cold, the slightest shiver from arising goose pimples, but the ragged breath he lets out says otherwise.

“Did you just come?” Steve chokes out in disbelief.

Billy nods, his curls hanging in his eyes. “Y-yeah, _shit_.”

He didn’t even _touch_ himself. Steve’s stomach flips. He hasn’t had a hand on his cock either and he can taste his release. Can feel it in his throat, a chokehold.

“Fuck, me too,” he gulps.

He barely gets it out before he’s tensing, too. It’s just a hiccup of relief. A bump on the road. Enough that he can feel the aftershocks, but not enough to knock him out yet.

Billy’s still going. Using his heels to drag himself up and down on the shaft. His tempo’s a little off, a little less coordinated. Steve can’t say he’s managing any better — he’s trying to get back to what he had but his thighs burn from the almost squat-like motion of riding it.

But he persists, heels digging into Billy’s thighs, and pinches his eyes as he rocks into that spot again.

☆

He’s not sure how much time has passed.

All Steve knows right now is that he’s come four times tonight, at least four times that he can remember clearly, and he might _finally_ be on his last legs.

Everything is just _too much_.

He’s got a crick in his neck, his stomach muscles ache from contracting so hard, and his legs are sore, thigh to ankle. His fingers have seemingly been clenched for ages in the blankets, maybe unable of unfurling, and he’s distantly aware of how damp his skin in, come stickying his thighs and sweat drying in layers on his skin.

Billy’s wrung so many out of him he’s lost count like this before. Has _literally_ fucked him stupid. Left him unmoving and babbling incoherently.

For some people four going on five - or even more, he’s not totally sure - out of heat is still quite much but he’s managed more. Right now he doesn’t know if he can physically come again, despite the underlying need to. A niggling in the back of his mind.

Billy’s right there with him, grinding with the same tired urgency, getting just as much as he is, making this feel like so much with all the extra outside audio-visual stimulus.

Because really, Billy’s a fucking _vision_ , a revelation, panting and sweat drenched and bathed in long contrasting shadows that can’t hide the flush of his skin — how could anyone blame Steve for having so little control? For continuing to push himself?

With half shut eyes, he can see Billy’s curls are stringy and damp, sticking to his cheeks and shoulders in haphazard spirals, and his lips are rose red, puffy from being worked by his teeth. Cherubic in a sinful kind of way.

Fucking _gorgeous_. Steve thinks right then that he might be in love but he’ll keep that to himself for now.

He’s just teetering on the edge watching Billy, barely working on his hips, just holding his end lax in one hand. All the weed and boozy nips at the bonfire have been fully sweat out of his system to be replaced with floods of arousal and the cloying scent of _them_ — fresh blooms, vanilla sugared cinnamon. Summer and autumn.

Weakly, Steve finds himself reaching for the massager. If he tries to use his hand, especially with the vigor he had last time, he’ll barely be able to get his fingers on himself. His cock is beat, swollen from all the stimulation and aching for that last hit.

Steve raggedly snorts as he thinks _I think I’ve beat my last meat_ but he keeps the thought to himself. Billy still shoots him a weird look despite all his panting and grinding.

“Bringin’ in the, the big guns?” he huffs, attempting to grin but too breathless to achieve it, “ _that’s_ what I’m fuckin’ talking about it.”

With his limbs turning to jelly, it feels heavier than usual. In all fairness, it’s usually been Billy using it on him, but still. Steve’s not usually _weak_. He presses the plush tip against his dick and immediately flicks it on to the second setting.

It hits him like a gut punch. The wrecked noise it pulls from him is near hysterical.

He fights with himself to contain his voice a little better. Fights to keep his eyes open as they try to flutter closed, but he wants to watch Billy’s face as he gets himself off. Watch the way he groans, high and loud, when the bulb on the wand grazes the dildo and makes it buzz in brief bursts.

The second is _strong_. It has Steve bowing forward, curling in on himself. His thighs are shaking. He’s probably throwing Billy’s rhythm off.

Billy pets his thigh gently albeit shakily. “You gonna come again, baby?”

It’s not teasing or acid-laced, not mean in a way that usually makes Steve’s stomach churn sweetly. Billy’s voice is soft when he asks, adoring even. He’s watching with intention. Even slows his grind to seemingly concentrate better.

Steve can’t even think to nod at first. He suddenly just wants Billy closer, on and over him, pinning him down.

“Wanna kiss you,” he mumbles, and it’s almost hidden by the wand’s buzzing, droning out the creaking bed and their slick skin and the speaker’s bass, “fuck, _please_ -”

“Shh, I got you, I got you.”

Billy shifts forward without pulling off and it pushes the toy in that much farther, closely bordering discomfort. One hand goes for his over the wand and the other finds his hip.

When Billy’s stubble prickles his top lip, he’s done for.

He can’t fight it as he cries out against Billy’s mouth. The sound feels ripped out of him, scraped raw out of his throat, while the boiling in his belly spills over. Steve squirts. Gushes on the blanket. Some of it splatters on his thighs.

The strength of the wand is very quickly too much and he has to tap out. He paws it away weakly, unable to find words like _stop_ or _turn it off_ , almost cowering from it. Billy has to turn it off for him.

“ _Goddamn_ , baby,” Billy’s breath ghosts his jaw, “that was _so_ fucking hot, Jesus, almost came just _watching you_.”

Steve can only whine in reply. He feels stretched out, rolled thin. Totally drained. His dick physically _hurts_. Swears he can still feel the vibrations even with the wand off and out of his hands. Billy just peppers his jaw with kisses and he _tries_ to meet his mouth, tries to respond properly, but he’s just so _tired_. Completely wrung out.

He’s vaguely aware of the dildo still curved inside of him. His whole body’s kind of numbed out to the extra stimulation. He’s not totally opposed to just slipping off of it and crashing like this, all sticky and exhausted, but Billy’s not done yet. It wouldn’t be fair to leave him to take care of himself when this is an intentional team effort.

“Lemme,” he grumbles, his cheek softly colliding with Billy’s nose as he tries to meet his eyes, “lemme help.” Under his lidded eyes he can make out Billy’s confused frown, so he clarifies. “Lay back, let me help you out. Wanna see you come again.”

It comes out jumbled, the words stuck together with a sleepy slur.

He knows Billy’s throwing him a hesitant look but he’s too tired to really look, to counter it; Luckily Billy complies anyway. Tips back a little to rest on his palms and cranes his neck downwards to watch. He likes to watch when he’s got his fingers or the strap stuffing Steve full — always hungry for a better view.

Steve doesn’t remove his end of the toy, not yet. Instead he starts gently undulating his hips to get Billy back on track. He fumbles for the wand, too. Billy groans and grabs for his knee. His nails are short but blunt where they cut into the bone.

He gently sets the wand against Billy’s cock and flicks the notch to the first setting. A dull buzz starts and Billy hisses. Bends in on himself a little. His hips stutter.

“ _More_.”

If not for the hiccup halfway through the syllable, it’d be a demand.

Still, Steve bumps it up a level, up to where he’d started off. It immediately elicits a low groan from Billy. Steve’s got the wand at a slight angle so the tip is pressed flat against the head of Billy’s cock. Offering the most direct stimulation.

He’s still moving his hips, too, slower than Billy would normally like, but he’s tired and uncomfortable with the blunt tip of the dildo still moving back and forth in him, the overworked hotspots inside. He’s blissfully weak to Billy’s newfound unabashedness in his pleasure.

It’s not _so_ abruptly new, but that beginning it was all quiet breaths and pinched eyes, a low, near silent swear. As time has passed he’s become more vocal, less controlled. Now he clings with his hands and mouth, his legs, and the invisible blockade of embarrassment has been hence removed to let his gasps and keens and begging run amok.

When Steve starts moving the toy back and forth, it’s clear Billy’s not going to last much longer. He knows the signs like he knows the moles dotting his cheeks and neck — Billy’s brows pinch, his eyes move from squeezed shut, lashes tickling his cheeks, to heavy and half lidded, his muscles pull taut like corded rope.

“I’m,” Billy pants then, “fuck, _Steve_ -”

“I got you, baby,” Steve sleepily coos at him.

He presses the soft head of the wand against Billy more intently. The vibrations hardly muffle with the added pressure. Billy’s gripping the sheets hard enough to rip them, his toes digging into Steve’s hips, nearly grinding against Steve’s overworked cunt, he’s so deep on the toy.

Steve’s so _tired_ and so _full_ and the wand feels so _heavy_ in his grasp but he still moves it over Billy’s dick in a short but insistent back-forth pattern. Keeps humping his hips a little too. Billy tilts himself back a little and nearly chokes at the change in angle.

Even in his exhaustion, Steve’s determined. _Needs_ to make Billy come again. _Needs_ to hear the wrecked sounds he makes when he’s reached his limit, and see him come around the toy and whine as he shakily comes down from his climax, overstimulated and exhausted but ultimately satisfied all the same.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s worked up enough he’ll gush. _Christ_ what a celebration tonight would be.

“I’m gonna,” Billy starts, and Steve presses the wand up against him with as much force as he can, shortening his wrist movements but keeping his pressure steady, “ _fuck_ , I’m gonna _come_ -”

Steve nods eagerly and he’s nearly panting, wanting it so bad. “Lemme see baby, lemme see you come.”

Billy pinches his eyes shut. Tries to bite into his lip hard enough to stay silent but he can’t. They part on a ragged _fuck!_ and he’s coming. _Christ_ , he’s coming, fucking _squirting,_ clamping around the toy in stuttered gushes.

It floods out between his thighs in spurts. Some of his come hits Steve’s inner thigh. They’re going to _have_ to strip the sheets now.

Steve holds the wand until Billy’s hips stutter wildly — almost like he has no bearing over them. He clicks it off and pulls away, leaving it on the headboard to be taken care of later. He really can’t bring himself to care much about getting into the shower or doing laundry or even cleaning up their mess right away. Figures he can barely _stand_.

Billy _most likely_ feels the same. He’s kind of collapsed back onto the bed with his legs spread wide.

“H-holy _shit_.” Billy drags his palms down his face. “I can’t, I, _fuck_ , Stevie, can’t believe you made me _squirt_.”

Steve nods dazedly and eyes their wet thighs, the soaked sheets. “Fuck, me neither.”

Billy shakily sits up so he can lean back on his elbows. His wide-eyed wonderment slowly succumbs to a cheeky smile, before it abruptly becomes contagious, breathy laughter. Steve doesn’t find himself impervious to it. The post-orgasm delirium has him almost instantly keeled over, giggling. Billy’s cackles are wild enough to make the bed shake. He holds his stomach like he’s trying to hold it in.

The tail end of _Rock You Like a Hurricane_ is playing on the speaker, uncannily fitting.

Once they calm down a little, their joint laughing fit succumbing to hiccupy giggles, Steve thoroughly assesses what they’re dealing with. Well, really — what he has the _actual_ energy to take care of right now.

Finally removing the dildo would be a good place to start. Then maybe seeing just how bad they soaked the sheets with come. He pats Billy’s calf.

“C’mon big guy, let’s clean up a little bit.”

Billy sighs loudly. “I can’t even feel my _legs_ , Harrington.”

“Well my dick hurts and I don’t think you’re gonna be able to get anything in me for a few days, so let’s at _least_ do the bare minimum here, huh? Team effort, let’s go.”

Steve goes first. Works himself off of it carefully. It’s definitely uncomfortable on the way out. Squelches obscenely as it goes. When the few inches of alternating nubs and textured stripes slide out, he hisses in discomfort. Drips a little too when the head’s finally free.

It’s not a soreness he’s never experienced - and he’ll definitely get a little wet thinking about it later, like a masochist - but it’s still not fun. Kinky as a little post-coital reminder sting is, it’s still a sting. A dull, rubbed raw kind of feeling.

When it’s Billy’s turn, he seems in the same boat. Goes a little quicker at first and instantly regrets it with a hissed _shit!_ ; Steve angles himself off his ass a little - tender from direct contact - and thumbs Billy’s ankle to try and distract him. The wet slipping sound continues until Billy’s completely free of it.

He’s red and dripping, fucked open. Spreading himself a little, he grunts. Steve can see how his hole flutters. Overworked as it tries to clench down on the emptiness. He knows he’s no better.

“I think we’re both gonna be sitting on some peas tomorrow, Jesus,” Billy’s nose wrinkles, “ _fuck_ that felt good but _man_ , I’m fuckin’ _sore_.”

Steve nods and eases himself onto his back. Tries not to cringe when the backs of his thighs touch the cooling wet spot on the comforter. He won’t wait too long before strippng the bed or getting in the shower; he just needs a second to breathe.

His eyes flutter closed and he feels the bed dip, then what has to be Billy settling over him. He’s heavy, all solid muscle, but his weight is grounding. Their legs instinctively tangle. Billy noses his hairline and pins one arm with his own where the other sneaks to his ribs to play scales on the smattering of moles. Steve loops his arms around his waist to hold him tight, even if it presses the air out of him a little.

The playlist is still going but it's become faint background noise. He can’t remember what song this is. Opens his eyes. All his focus is on Billy’s warm weight pinning him down, how his own chest feels wide as a field and full of fresh open air - _is this what freedom feels like?_ he wonders distantly - how the string lights seem to glow brighter overhead and illuminate the gold in his hair, the sparkling emerald hidden in his ocean blue eyes.

How under dried sweat and bonfire, he smells even more like melted sugar and smoky spice. Like them. Like _home_.

“Happy graduation, baby,” Billy kisses into his temple.

He turns into the column of Billy’s throat. “You too.”

☆

Steve rouses with a snort and a groan.

Late morning is shining brightly through the uncovered window. It’s a blinding sort of light, and not just because he just woke up and was somehow able to muster the energy last night to shower and change the sheets but not close the blinds or shut the curtains, but because the pool outside is reflecting sunbeams onto the ceiling in dancing swirls.

Steve hides himself under the clean sheets. Grunts sleepily. The fresh comforter is rolled up at the foot of the bed. Too warm to sleep under it with summer humidity and Billy’s internal furnace available.

And Billy’s right there, too, hiding with him. He’s plastered to Steve’s back, still snoring softly. Hopefully one of many uninterrupted nights of sleep to come. One arm drapes loosely over Steve’s middle.

Carefully, he turns in Billy’s hold. Just wants to watch him, fully at peace, for a moment.

Steve’s parents will be here in a few hours. A few days ago he was dreading their return. Now he feels irritated over their temporary return. Almost like they’re imposing on his life, his home; fuck if it’s technically their house if he’s the only one living in it and taking care of it.

And if they couldn’t be bothered to adjust their flight to yesterday, knowing well beforehand when graduation was, especially because it was a graduation they didn’t even think he’d _see_ , it means dick all to him they’re coming home at all now.

Until they leave again, it’s all going to be scheduled, wannabe meet-cutes with suitable bachelors at the country club and forced conversation over family dinners. Business outings even when they’re supposed to be on vacation. Mom’s nitpicking at his wardrobe choices and pushing him for insider details on any spousal considerations and Dad on his ass about literally everything else.

When he’d told Billy about his annoyance at their return in the Camaro last night, Billy had whispered, “ _Fuck ‘em_ ,” against his lips, tasting like salt and strawberries.

And around a cheekful of hot mozzarella sticks, while Steve protested for a minute - for what reason he didn’t even _know_ \- he’d said —

“No, fuck ‘em, Steve, _seriously_. They’ve been treating you like some virginal breeding prize since you were fuckin’ _born_. Like you’re dumb as a stump and you’re never gonna be good for or _at_ anything except taking cock and pumping out kids so you shouldn’t even _try_ , but then you get a job and _graduate_ only for them to tell you to quit the fuckin’ job and then they miss your fucking graduation? Nah, I don’t fucking think so —”

So yeah, fuck ‘em.

He’ll play nice when the car drops them off. Kiss Mom’s bronzed cheek and insist on helping Dad with the luggage like he always does. Ask how the meetings and the city and fucking whatever else went. But he’s not going to pretend that he’s going to fill the role of trophy spouse any longer. Not going to pretend that he doesn’t want _more_. That he’s _clearly_ not as straight laced and innocent as they keep pretending he is.

That he’s _Prime Harrington breeding stock_.

He distracts himself from the brief flash of anger by wrapping his arms around Billy and breathing in his shampoo. Soft curls and peppermint tickle his nose. It’s satiating enough.

But when Billy stirs a moment, grumbling against his chest, he does feel a little guilty. He runs his fingers through Billy’s hair and partially hopes he’ll settle again, just readjust himself and fall back into slumber; he doesn’t. Billy sleepily burrows his way out of their blanket cocoon and groans, long and loud.

Steve pops his head back out of the blankets. He winces a little, accidentally looking straight out the opened window and blinding himself, and tries to blink away the bursts of cerulean behind his eyelids.

“Did I wake you up?” he asks, rubbing his eyes aggressively. “Fuck, I think I blinded myself.”

Billy snorts to his right. “Nah, s’not you. It’s too bright in here.”

When Steve wills the blinding swirls away, Billy’s sitting up next to him, cracking his neck and twisting in place, his spine popping like bubble wrap - maybe he can convince Billy to see a chiropractor because he’s always cracking _something_ , rubbing away old injuries and achy joints - before stretching out on his back. He settles with a content sigh and hums. Rubs his eyes a few times, fluffs his hair — a mostly tangled mess of curl.

“What time’re your folks getting in?”

Steve reaches for his phone. It’s just after eleven. They’re supposed to be home around two-thirty. Too close and too far at the same time.

“Few hours.” He sets his phone back down. “I need to uh, empty the dishwasher and vacuum the living room before they get here. You don’t need to help or anything; you can just chill.”

“I mean,” Billy folds his arms under his head, “one, I’m gonna help you anyway, and two, I should’ve probably asked earlier, but do you want me to be here when they get in?”

And honestly, he hadn’t thought about _that_. He’s mostly been thinking about what he’s going to do when they see Billy’s boots by the front door, or the chocolate protein shakes he likes in the fridge, or the cardboard boxes full of his things set up in the guestroom. He hadn’t quite gotten to the part about an actual introduction. _Shit_.

Lamely, he offers, “I… I dunno. I hadn’t really thought about how you’d meet them or anything like that. I just thought they’d see your stuff and I’d pull some bullshit like _Oh, I’m just helping out a friend_. S’kinda stupid, huh?”

Billy turns to him and frowns. Pinches him in the side gently, making him squeak.

“It’s not _stupid_ , Steve. And you’re not stupid either, Christ, I hope you know I’m the only one here who’s gonna work on stuff, because _you_ need to stop being so goddamn self deprecating.”

Steve feels his cheeks heat. It’s an honest callout. Have people tell you something enough though, and you’ll believe it.

Billy must take his silence the wrong way because he sighs and suddenly he’s combing Steve’s wild bedhead out of his eyes with his fingers. “Sorry, that was like, too aggressive. I just. I don’t like it when you’re so hard on yourself. Even over little shit.”

Early on Billy used to tell him to use his head, to stop being such an idiot. Then that turned into backhanded encouragement to stop being such a downer by being such a dick to himself. But he’s never said it like this — never backed up his aggressive reassurances with something soft like that, trying to make up for his tendencies to be so blunt and blatant.

Because honestly — he kind of _likes_ Billy’s way of being encouraging. He doesn’t want Billy to be a total softie, totally pliable and easy and all lovesick on pheromones. Then he wouldn’t be _Billy_.

Steve just turns onto his side and takes Billy’s hand, kissing the heart of his palm.

“I’ll stop if you stop.” he counters, grinning.

Billy sighs all dramatic. “ _Fine_ , you little shit.” It’s teasing, not unkind. “But seriously, do you want me here when they get here? D’you want me to like, hide out somewhere til the coast is clear, or do you need the moral support?”

It would be _smart_ for Billy to duck out for a bit while he butters them up, introduces the idea in a hypothetical capacity first and if they shut them down early, well, he’s got the puppy dog pout down _pretty_ solidly, and he doesn’t want Billy to be witness to that; mostly because he’ll never hear the end of that teasing, in more than one context.

But then again —

“I think.. you should be here. With me. It’s not like they can say no if you’re already here, right?” Realizing how that sounds as a standalone, he adds, “But it’s not like they _can_ say no anyway. If they try to fight me on it, I’ll come up with some shit about how I _promised_ to help you, or something. My dad’s got this _thing_ about keeping promises, even though when he makes ‘em to me or Mom it means total dick, but, y’know. Probably some weird business alpha thing. I dunno.”

Billy nods in understanding. “Assuming then we’re not gonna be pulling any _spectacles_ like last night?”

“Not _yet_ , at least.”

Billy wiggles his brows and his chest rumbles in a purr. Steve laughs and flicks him in the side. This is only the start but freedom and maybe even _happiness_ has unleashed Billy’s truly dorky tendencies.

They’re quiet for a little while after settling that. Steve curls up against Billy, one leg thrown over his hips and one arm thrown around his middle. He hides his face in the crook of Billy’s neck and just _breathes_ , lets his head go empty while birds chirp and children’s laughter echoes from the other end of the neighborhood. Billy just holds him close, tucked into his hair.

In Steve’s rest though, an invasive thought bubbles back to the surface. What does the summer truly hold for them, both together and as individuals? And what happens when July rolls into August rolls into September?

He barely has a half-formed plan about what he’s going to do in community college - but he knows he’s going to at some point, that’s for sure - and he still has to find a way to weasel himself farther and farther away from his parents’ grasp and their structured life plan so he can actually do things _he_ wants, and maybe, if the future holds strong, introduce Billy in the role he _truly_ plays in his life instead of what he’s going for right now — just a friend he’s helping out by giving him somewhere to stay.

The doubt and fear creeps through him like twisting fines, the thought itself filling the peaceful void in his head with a million questions he doesn’t want to acknowledge. He tries to press them down, will them away, but then Billy sniffs. He _has_ to smell different — a little sour from sudden fear, anxiety.

“What’s wrong?”

Steve shakes his head against Billy’s neck, hoping he’ll drop it, but when Billy leans back, brows pinched in concern and his mouth tipped downwards in a slight frown, he knows there’s no use trying to get out of this.

He’s going to ruin things, isn’t he?

“I’ve just been thinking,” and he really doesn’t like the way Billy tenses when he says that, “about this summer. About what’ll happen in fall.”

Billy’s hold on his waist doesn’t slacken. “What do you mean?”

Steve swallows around a lump in his throat. Wants to hide himself away again, talk into Billy’s skin so he doesn’t have to see the phases of emotion on his face, from the peace he’s just robbed him of.

“I mean, I don’t know what you wanna do for college, if you even _want_ to go to college, but, I do know you’ve been dying to go back to California since you got there. That at some point you’re going to go back, whether it’s with me or not.”

Billy’s just staring at him, waiting. Searching his face for clues. Steve scrubs a palm over his face.

“And I don’t know what I’m gonna do with my life. I want to try to go to community college, but I don’t know if I’ll be any good at it. Like I don’t even know what I’d go for in the first place. What’re you gonna do with someone who doesn’t have any fucking direction? And my parents? They’re gonna try and make me stay here and live out their bullshit fantasy of my life no matter how much I fight it or _what_ I do.”

Billy’s a step ahead of him. “So what’re you saying?”

Steve feels itchy — frustrated and embarrassed at the same time. Billy’s hand on his waist, hip under his knee, toes on his ankle, it’s too much sensation, but he refuses to pull away from it. Just in case.

“I’m _saying_ I don’t know what I want to do with my life besides getting away from all this traditionalist shit my parents want, and I’m afraid that because of that, you’re going to go back to California at some point whether I’m with you or not and I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m still here and you leave.”

It comes out in a rush. A cork pulling to release a flood, a dam breaking.

Billy just blinks at him for a minute. Eventually he rolls away so he’s flat on his back. His arms fold over his chest and he squeezes his biceps in his palms. He doesn’t say anything but lock eyes with the white popcorn ceiling. Steve wants to hold his breath. Or leave. Or even apologize and take it all back and tell Billy to forget everything he just said, _let’s go get doughnuts and smoothies for breakfast?_

Really he just wants anything that’s not seeing how much he’s just fucked this whole thing up so early on into fixing it.

But then, Billy clears his throat. He’s still not looking at him, but he purses his lips a few times, licks at the corner of his mouth briefly.

“I, uh, I actually don’t really know what I wanna do,” Billy tells the ceiling, “with like, college or really life, really any of it. I’ve spent my whole life just trying to fuckin’ survive, to get away from Neil, and now I’ve done that I don’t have a new goal or whatever, not yet at least.” Billy does turn to him then, hesitant. “Yeah, since we got here I’ve just been trying to get back to California, but I don’t… I think that wherever _you_ are, if that’s assfuck nowhere like out here or San Fran or fuckin’ Indie or even goddamn _France_ , wherever the hell you are? Or where you wanna be? I think that’s where I wanna be too. And I think I’ll figure out all the other shit along the way.”

Steve feels his heart leap into his throat. He doesn’t know what to say. Had nothing practiced or prepared for _that_. Billy’s just staring at him with these big blue eyes and he thought the other day that _that_ was the most honest Billy ever was and as honest as he ever _would_ be but, but that’s obviously not true and he can’t swallow all the words down and get a proper taste for them like he wants to.

He thought Billy would snort, tell him _to slow his roll._ To stop freaking out about nothing. Take shit one step at a time and get his panties out of a twist. Or maybe even tell him that yeah, he’s going to school in California come fall but they’ll still have a few months with the insinuation that they’ll _see_ how long distance treats them in the end.

It’s like he hasn’t crossed his fingers and pinched his eyes shut and _prayed_ for fucking months for Billy’s uncensored honesty with this kind of outcome — for wanting so much _more_.

He manages a pathetic, “ _oh_ ,” in response.

Steve then rolls onto his stomach and rests his chin on his folded arms. Tries to focus on the freshly goose pimpled flesh on his speckled arms, the fine brown hairs sticking up like antennas, the faded brown stain on the edge of the pillowcase from that time he woke up with a vicious nosebleed two years ago. Anything but Billy’s watchful eyes.

But when Billy’s knuckle grazes his cheek, Steve still can’t fight the way he nuzzles into it. He catches Billy turn back onto his side out of the corner of his eye and tilts towards him a little too.

“I guess we’re both a little directionless,” Billy supplies, still grazing the highpoint of his cheekbone.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, “so uh, what do you think we should do?”

“I _think_ ,” Billy shimmies closer to him and his breath tickles the hair on his arm, “there’s no rush to figure shit out, y’know? I mean. We graduated high school last night. We’ve got some time.”

Who is _this_ Billy? Steve frees up one hand to tangle their fingers together. His thumb passes over that rippled white scar on the webbing of Billy’s thumb again.

“I mean, I guess. My parents are still coming home this afternoon though.”

Billy tilts his head like _yeah, fair_. “Alright, _besides_ that then. I meant it when I said wherever you go, that’s where I wanna be, even if it is corny as all _shit_ like _god_ , what’re you _doing_ to me, Harrington?” Steve snorts. “But we could, I dunno, have a little change of scenery? My, uh, my mom wants to see me.”

Billy doesn’t talk about his mom, other than the few details he’s spared about an ugly custody battle and their sporadic correspondence since, always closely monitored and cut off by Neil. Her number isn’t even in Billy’s phone; it’s written out in red pen on a scrap of faded notebook paper folded up behind his driver’s license. Some earlier numbers are written on it and hastily crossed out.

And Steve’s only seen one photo of her — a folded up photograph that also lives in Billy’s wallet. It’s the two of them on some beach, midday. The ocean is a vast, blue expanse behind them and his mother crouching partly behind him with her arms around his middle, and little Billy wrapped in a towel, grinning with a jack o'lantern smile. She’s beaming, too, dressed in a white sundress with her bright blond curls blowing around them, a mix of chunky bracelets hanging on her wrists.

“She does?”

Billy nods. “Yeah she just, y’know. Couldn’t. Not with Neil around. But now she can. And she and her wife? They’ve got a house in Half Moon Bay.”

It dawns on Steve then what Billy’s implying here. That he’s playing nonchalant and figurative but there’s something intentional there, something he’s maybe too afraid to speak bluntly.

“Do they now?” Steve asks, voice growing thick.

Billy nods, dramatically earnest. He adjusts the arm he’s resting on and the other comes to rest on Steve’s back, dipping just under the blanket. His fingers dance low on Steve’s spine. His pinky grazes one cheek and Steve shivers. Billy seemingly watches his fingers make the sheet rise and fall.

“Yeah. She said they’ve got a room for me too, if I want it. Even if it’s just for the summer. And that if there’s anyone I wanna bring, I can. That she wants to meet ‘em.”

“Mm. You got anyone in mind?” Steve bites into his bottom lip, waiting.

“I dunno, I mean, I could always take _you_ , if anything?” Billy clears his throat. “Figuring you got nothing better to do with your folks around acting like jackasses, or with a totally empty house, renting movies and trying to figure out what you’re gonna do with your life.”

Steve feels his heart pounding in his chest, imagines a comical heart-shape distending the skin like a bug-eyed cartoon character. It’s suddenly hard to swallow, to breathe. Everything is the soft sheets and the deep rumble of Billy’s voice and the sunlight sneaking in.

Whatever he says next seals their fate. _Red pill or blue?_

“I’ll have to check my calendar, but I’m not totally opposed.”

Billy works his lips and nods. “Sounds like a plan, then, Harrington.” He’s unable to suppress his grin any longer as it spreads across his face. His freckled cheeks dimple and his eyes suddenly grow glassy. He sniffles a little and laughs, once. Wipes his nose on the back of one hand. “Sounds like a plan,” he repeats thickly.

When a tear streaks his cheek, Steve thumbs it away absentmindedly. Does the same to the next few that spill over, then the flood that follows, even as Billy tries to paw him away to hide in the pillows. Steve just laughs, voice equally wet and eyes stinging, cups his cheeks to wipe the saltwater away.

“I guess so.”

Billy’s drawing him in the next instant. Pulling him down so they’re flush together and a shared mess of tears and bubbly laughter. Billy holds onto him with those familiar, chapped hands like he’ll float away if he doesn’t squeeze tight enough. Steve cradles him just the same.

They have two more hours before his parents get home. The details after that point are a little fuzzy, but that’s okay.

Whenever they leave for California, be it next week or next month, he’s going to have to quit the video store first. Find a way to get Robin out to visit them to make up for leaving her alone with old candy and dusty stacks of DVDs. Find a way to tell the kids he’ll be spending their summer before high school burning his feet on hot sand and basking in cool sea water instead of playing carpool and going to the Wheelers’ rented cabin for the fourth of July.

But whenever that is, and wherever they may go, California or bust, he has Billy and a blank slate.

And for Steve? That’s more than he could ever hope for.

**Author's Note:**

> epilogue to come soon!
> 
> also here are some jams to match the vibe i was going for here:
> 
> \- lust by chase atlantic (some lyrics also used in the title)  
> \- bad by heavy eyes  
> \- summertime by riley ft. lil aaron  
> \- waste by brockhampton  
> \- turn you on by cherry pools  
> \- prom by riah  
> \- pink by no rome  
> \- i couldn't be more in love by the 1975
> 
> find me elsewhere (will i ever be allowed to link offsite here again):
> 
> tumblr @ sparkleeye
> 
> twitter @ sparkly_eye
> 
> nsfw twitter @ gentlechokehold


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